


A Fortune for your Disaster

by TruantPunk



Series: A Fortune for your Disaster [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Depression, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Prostitution, Rough Sex, Self-Destruction, Sex Work, Soul Punk Era (Fall Out Boy)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 01:04:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14201670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TruantPunk/pseuds/TruantPunk
Summary: Patrick had two of everything these days. He had two suits for the night. One for the show, one for afterward. He had two phones; one for Patrick Stump, ex-singer of Fall Out Boy and failing solo artist, and another for his other role, the one that took hold late at night, after his show.





	1. Chapter 1

Patrick didn't do eye contact anymore. Not with his band-mates at least. Particularly not with Michael. Hadn't there been a time, a few months back, when there had been a thing between them? Patrick was certain, like an electric tug from his navel to Michael's. Bringing him closer. Lighting him up. Then things changed.

“There are other ways, Patrick,” he said. He sounded like Patrick’s dad in that moment. Maybe that's what he liked now. Older, male. Someone to tell him he was doing it wrong. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m not doing anything,” Patrick said. He wasn't in that moment. They were on the tour bus for three days, Patrick wouldn’t be going anywhere in that time. Just on stage, back to the bus, sitting in his bunk with the curtain shut. “What is it you think I’m doing?”

Patrick watched Michael hesitate. He knew it now, how to read men. What they liked, what they didn't like. Michael was a traditionalist. Probably too old school. He wanted to fuck Patrick at one point, but he'd want a dinner date first. Patrick could tell.

“If you ever want to talk about anything,” Michael said. He left it out there. When Patrick chanced a look in his face, Michael was looking down at the floor.

Patrick had two of everything these days. He had two suits for the night. One for the show, one for afterward. He had two phones; one for Patrick Stump, ex-singer of Fall Out Boy and failing solo artist, and another for his other role, the one that took hold late at night, after his show. He called himself Lukas. Or the company did, when they told him he needed a new moniker. 

Everyone was vetted so it was fine. His headless photos were kept on a database with a fake biography of himself. Patrick hadn’t read it, but he knew the basics. _Lukas is a music student. He’s always willing to try something new with the man he loves!_ Every new man was a man he loved. They were all his boyfriend. They were nearly always older, they had money, and a wife, probably, at home with the kids. And really, he _was_ expensive. No guy off the street could afford him. Half the money was wired to the company, where they kept a cut and sent the rest to Patrick. The other half he got direct from the client, usually with a hefty tip. Sometimes, it was even easy money. 

He needed the money because the rest was all gone. Producing music was expensive. Touring it was even worse. His built-in fan-base had faded away and the small clubs were barely selling out. Some nights he couldn’t book a room for himself in advance; the money wouldn’t stretch. He did stayovers, though, with the men that had him for the night. It got him out of booking that one room, the one for himself that he could barely afford.

Tonight, would be a good show. For Patrick Stump, the washed-up rock star and failing solo artist. The mood felt good backstage. Sometimes he knew it would be off from the atmosphere alone. He’d grown up in a rock band. He knew how it was. He warmed up, tightened the laces on his leather shoes. His bleached hair fell over his face, and through the peroxide curtains he could see the rest of the band laughing in the corner. He caught Michael staring at him. He went red, then looked away. Patrick tightened his laces once more.

The only time things felt right was when he was onstage. Even when he heard the low buzz of booing, even when he saw signs about fob, and his weight. They’d mocked him when he was fat, and they seemed embarrassed by him now he was thin. He didn’t understand it, but it didn’t matter. He danced across the stage, he sang his songs, and in the brief moments where he looked over at Michael, he stared back with a smile.

He was sad when the show was over. He was sad because it meant another 22 hours waiting for the next gig to start. People had enjoyed themselves. Fans he recognized from his Fall Out Boy days and supported him still. They made him smile. Afterward, on the way to the bus, a cluster of fans were hanging around. He signed things for them. One was young, too young to have been at the show really. She talked at him nervously, behind her was her dad. Patrick scrawled his signature across her CD and stared at him. Had he fucked him? They all blended into one, these days.

Back on the bus, it felt like it did in the early fob days, before they grew apart. They all sat around the back of the bus, to watch a movie. Patrick was wedged between Michael and Casey. Every time he shifted, he worried about touching Michael too much. Michael knew what he was, Michael didn’t like it. It wasn’t electric between them anymore. Patrick had seen the movie once, years back. It was a shitty action flick. He saw it with Pete once, on a day off. Before everything happened. 

 

Three days later, things were a little different. Money was low, it always was, once gas and food had been paid. Patrick had fired his manager, his touring agent. He said he wanted to do things organically, for himself for once in his life, but really it was a way to cut out the confusion over why he was paying for everything in cash. The less questions the better. Patrick wouldn’t know how to answer them.

After the show, they were back to the hotel room. Patrick never hung out with the rest of them now, away from the bus. He showered, and he styled his hair, softer than for a show. He kept it down, the blond tips tickling the tops of his eyelashes. Then he was into a suit. A nice once, not as showy as his stage outfits. A crisp white shirt, tight black pants and a jacket to match. No tie, the first three buttons undone. He had a watch. He had his wallet, with three unopened condoms tucked inside. He kept his ID in the drawer of this hotel room. If he was ever maimed and murder, no one would ever think him the former singer from that stupid antler band. 

The hotel he was heading to was across town, much better quality than the one they were in now. Way better than any of the fancy ones they stayed in a few years back, when Fall Out Boy was at their peak. Patrick had his Lukas phone with him, and a singular message from a number he didn’t recognize. It’s given out by the company an hour before the arrangement. They have everyone’s details, in case Patrick… Lukas felt the need to complain.

The fourteenth floor. 1432. Not memorable. Patrick supposed that unless things went terrible tonight, the entire evening would be unmemorable too. The men all blurred into one. He knocked once, breathing in the smell of the hotel corridor. They were always the same; the smell of vacuumed carpet; of distant perfume and next door’s room service. 

The man opened the door without question. He was in a navy suit, brown belt. He was tall, but weren’t they all compared to Patrick? He’d always been the smallest. The man looked Patrick up and down, checking him out. Patrick smiled blandly. There was an envelope on the side, bulging with notes. Guys like that were the best, where they kept the transaction out in the open, but unspoken.

“Hello Lukas. I’m going to take a shower. Join me when you’re ready.” The man turned, heading towards the bathroom. It was only so that Patrick had enough time to count the money and pocket it out of sight. The man had a very slight accent, Swedish perhaps. Something clean and European. Patrick took the wad of money and tucked it into the side of his jacket. 

Patrick removed his clothes one by one. He left them in a small folded pile on the armchair in the corner. Normal Patrick, old Patrick, he would have left them in a tumbled heap at the foot of the bed. He had to be separate now, different. He’d lose his head otherwise.

They showered together. Patrick didn’t mind. It was fine, and he played the part well. College boy with a sugar daddy, he laughed at the right parts. When he was pressed against the glass of the shower door, he closed his eyes and gasped. The man fell to his knees, took Patrick in his mouth. It felt good, he supposed.

The sheets were expensive. Patrick could smell it, could feel it as his face was pushed into them. He moved around, so only his forehead was pressing in, so he could breathe as he was fucked. If he tucked his chin to his chest, he could see the man thrusting from between his own legs. He was semi hard. It would feel like a betrayal, to come with a client like this. He’d only do it if they wanted, he’d let his body go, but he’d never lose his head. 

“You are lovely, Lukas,” the man was saying afterward, when he’d come in the first condom. He still seemed lively, like there’d be a few more rounds left. He was in his late forties, probably, but fit. He had it in him. “You’re in college for music?”

“Yeah,” Patrick answered softly. The company had told him to say he was a student. He looked young, it matched his look, it worked for the men he would attract. He’d picked the elective. It was the only thing he knew. All his fundamental understandings of life came through it. 

“I travel a lot,” the man said instead, changing the topic. He was on top of the covers, his legs bent. He looked comfortable, talking to a stranger-whore in an anonymous hotel room. “New York…LA. You ever in those places?”

“I’ve worked in LA,” Patrick said cautiously. Was this a trick or was he just paranoid now? He kept his face neutral, his hands resting low on his own stomach. “I travel around a lot.”

Travelling meant that he rarely saw the same man twice. He’d informed the company of his schedule and they’d booked him various men. His main base was Chicago now, but he hadn’t had a chance to work when they’d toured there. He had family to see. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to switch it on and off around them.

“When are you next in LA?” The man asked curiously. He was shifting, ready for round two. Patrick’s two condoms lay on the night stand, the slim bottle of lube beside it. Patrick put his arms over the man’s neck, kissed him before answering.

“Two weeks’ time. I’m there for a few days.” He finished the tour then. Afterward, he’d fly back to his place in Chicago and rationalize what he’d done to himself. 

“I want you that whole time,” the man said. His fingers were inside Patrick, loosening what was already loose. Patrick clenched, because the men liked that, liked to think he was sore – a little nervous. Was he really that special? Had he really left that much of an impression that someone wanted to hire him for that long? It would cost thousands. 

“You know how to arrange it,” Patrick said, without saying it. He didn’t say check with the company to see if I’m free. He treated it like a date set between them. 

The sex was slower now, as if they’d sealed some kind of deal. The man plunged his tongue into Patrick’s mouth as his dick did the same to his ass. This is how he’d always liked sex with men. Taking it on his back, legs hitched over theirs. He liked the feeling of his cock between their bodies, of being kissed, of being pinned down. It was different with women, so different. It always felt like a treat.

And the clients rarely wanted it like this anyway. They wanted their cocks stuffed into his mouth, or bending him over, like he had been the first time. This was intimacy, it was supposed to be the thing that kept a relationship alight. Not arranged sex with an escort.

“Oh god.” He could hear himself moaning, shuddering. His cock was hard and his ass was gulping around the dick. He needed to change position, to go onto his stomach, to do something to stop himself wanting this. It had already overtaken his body, but he couldn’t let his head go. “We need to change position.”

“Why?” the man’s mouth was on his throat, kissing without leaving a mark. He wasn’t thrusting so hard now, keeping himself inside Patrick. He had wide hips, it made Patrick’s ache from being held open. “Let yourself go, darling.”

The darling was weird, but better than being called Lukas. Patrick was shaking, his cock was leaking. He kept going to touch it, to get himself off, but then reminded himself that this was a job and he didn’t like to come like this. He’d come in their mouths if _they_ wanted it. Not on his terms.

The man shifted, so that Patrick was squirming beneath him. He locked his legs around him without meaning to, so that he couldn’t move. Patrick’s hands were shaking as they touched the man’s shoulders, not through fear, but want. He wanted it. He wanted to come like this, spread out beneath this man. 

“Good boy.” The man kissed Patrick again, thrusting inside. His dick had felt big at the beginning, but it was better now. It was hard. Real. His hand wrapped around Patrick’s cock, stroking it. “Come like you want.”

Patrick did. He let his mind go with the movement. He was moaning, he could hear himself over the blood pumping in his ears. He was fucked through it, but even that didn’t feel quite enough. The edge was still there, even when he’d come, when the man stopped touching him and went back to fucking him instead. He lay there for another few minutes, stroking his hands down the unfamiliar body. He was still shaking when the man finally came inside the condom.

The man left the bed for a few moments. Patrick heard the sound of running water, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. His body was already sore. He’d done an energetic show three nights in a row, he was sleeping on an uncomfortable tour bus and he’d just been fucked twice in one hour. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to sleep now, or go another round.

“Drink.” Patrick sat up when the man came over to him with a small tumbler of water. He drank it down, watching the man watch him. He wondered what he was thinking. He couldn’t always tell. 

“Thanks.”

“You liked it?” the man said, taking the empty glass. Patrick couldn’t answer. Tomorrow shame would seep in, in how he let himself come like that, like it was a real thing rather than a transaction of $500 plus tips. 

“It was new,” he answered politely. That worked with the character. With Lukas. “Were you being serious about having me for my whole time in LA?”

“Sure. If our dates match up,” the man said, smiling. Was he ugly? Was he really old? Patrick couldn’t tell. He’d fuck this guy for the rest of his life if it felt like it did back then.

“I’ll make sure of it,” Patrick said, with a smile. 

It was an overnight stay, which sometimes left Patrick feeling unnerved. He didn’t usually sleep. He’d fallen asleep just after 2am, naked beneath the covers. He awoke to kisses on the back of his neck, a hand on his shoulder. He tried to grumpily swat the hand away before he remembered where he was. He peeled his eyes open and squirmed, until he was on his back.

“I have a meeting at 7:30,” the man was saying. Patrick didn’t have his glasses with him and his eyesight was terrible in the mornings. The fuzzy numbers on the alarm looked like they said something after 6 AM. “How are you feeling today?”

“Sore,” Patrick admitted. It was hard to slip into character, but then, had he really depended much on Lukas last night? He’d come as Patrick. His ass was sore, his muscles from the hips down ached. It hadn’t always felt like that. 

He watched the man’s eyes dart to the nightstand and he looked over where the singular condom was sitting in its blue foil. Patrick bit his lip. Yes. Yes he wanted it again. Already his stomach was flipping. He didn’t care what way it happened so long as it happened. 

Patrick took it on his stomach this time, a bundle of pillows beneath his hips. He was facing the large black television. It was off and so he could see their reflection, the man behind him, buried between the cheeks of his ass. He could feel hands on his ass cheeks, prying them open. He wanted to see too. He wanted to see how he took it, how his body sucked in the cock. 

“Don’t come yet,” the man warned him, when he saw Patrick fumbling a hand beneath himself. Patrick wanted to feel it bareback. To feel a man come inside and then the sticky shameful trail afterward. He moaned, pressing back, warning that he was close.

“Okay.”

The man drew away without coming, sensing how close Patrick was. Patrick pushed his ass back, wanting it, wanting whatever. He slapped his hand over his own back, ready to greedily push his own fingers inside when a firm hand pushed them away. 

“Don’t think about me,” the man said softly before he parted Patrick’s cheeks again. His tongue swiped firmly over Patrick’s asshole. He must’ve been so pink, so stretched and loose. He cried out, barely able to understand what was happening. He was baring all to a client, letting him eat him out. He came against the man’s tongue, his cock bouncing between his fingers. The person in Patrick’s mind as he came was a quick flash. White teeth, shaped lips. Coarse black stubble. 

Patrick sucked the man off afterward. He’d wanted to anyway, and he couldn’t bare to have anything inside him after being licked and fucked so thoroughly. He tasted latex and sweat. Salt. He swallowed it all down as he came, biting his lip afterward. He felt like a dog with a bone, desperate for validation. 

Part of Patrick hadn’t wanted to shower when he made it back to his own hotel room. Usually he spent time in the shower, attempting to scrub away the disgust of the night before; to hide all elements of Lukas from his Patrick presence. 

He showered because he had to now. He was achingly sore. He wanted a bath, really, but there was no tub in the room and very little time anyway. He washed his hair, his body, and tried not to focus on the last part of the session. Coming, thinking of someone. Someone eating him out. He knew who it was, but he couldn’t deal with that. He wouldn’t.

It was a media day which meant a full on schedule of sitting on his sore ass with a microphone under his nose, talking about how _oh me and Pete are totally cool. We saw each other last month!_ It had been closer to ten months now. They’d emailed a little, but Patrick had fallen into a pit of despair and prostitution. If anyone was to guess just by his face, it would be Pete. He couldn’t allow that. He spoke to Joe on the phone sometimes, but it was hard with all of them. It embarrassed him. 

He wore a gray button down, red tie. His leather jacket with the sleeves rolled up. He wanted to look put together, like he’d spent time thinking about it. Every movement made his body ache, remembering how he’d been the night before.

Wasn’t that the worst of it? That he’d had the best sex of his life with a client whose name he couldn’t even recall. Patrick called him TipWell, for the added $200 he was slipped on his way out. He hated himself for it, for being excited for a month’s time, where he’d be nothing but a toy for TipWell’s pleasure.

He bumped into Michael in the lobby. His band was lucky, they didn’t have to deal with media events like he did. They got to explore different cities, play new venues every night and pretend to ignore the buzzing of boos beneath the beat. 

“I tried knocking last night. You weren’t in,” Michael said. He had a look of pity on his face. For one cruel moment Patrick wanted to describe in detail where he’d been. He took a breath though, and simply shrugged.

“I was tired. I had my ear buds in,” Patrick lied. Could Michael tell? Could he see the way Patrick was standing and know? He knew it all anyway. 

“Right.” Michael said instead, not pushing the matter. “We should catch up some time.”

“Sure.” Patrick smiled blandly. Nodding his head. They could, at some point. In another future.

Patrick felt wiry all day. Half of him felt a little like he wanted to take his clothes off and find TipWell. Find him and beg for more. Just to get that close to feeling something again. Then he felt like shit for thinking that, and cursed himself for it. _Get a fucking grip._ He smiled at the interviewer, blonde and carefree. She had six inches on him. She was gorgeous. Patrick was nervous in her company, for what she might think of him.

He had a radio spot afterward, an small acoustic set. He sat on the leather stool, didn’t flinch once, and made it through the song okay. He played games with the host, he laughed off questions about his weight. Same old, same old, same everything.

After the show, which was an improvement on the last one, Patrick insisted on taking his band out for dinner. He could afford it, with what he’d earned the night before. Michael took a seat as far away from Patrick as possible. He could pretend it didn’t sting. He ate his food and sat listening to jokes darted across the table, like they were all old friends. Like they were having the time of their life.

“No matter what, this tour has been amazing,” Matt said to Patrick. “We all loved it.”

“Yeah.” Patrick smiled, drank some wine. “Can you believe that we’re just two dudes from two scene bands?”

“Nope.” Matt shook his head. He didn’t know. He didn’t know what Patrick did to continue the tour, to keep him paid. “This has been like a total experience of a lifetime.”

“Same, man,” Patrick said with a smile. He downed the rest of his wine.

Patrick spent the night alone in his hotel room afterward. They were leaving early, to catch a ride across another state, every new venue was a step closer to their end date in California. Patrick had been looking forward to it forever. His chance to take shelter from the spotlight, but now he had other reasons. Three nights with Tipwell. Three nights of bliss. Of thinking about someone else

 

One night later, Patrick was sucking the dick of a new man. He was huge, his large looming stomach pressing into Patrick’s forehead as he blew him. Patrick wondered if this was what it was like for his ex girlfriend, when he was at his heaviest. He hadn’t thought of it like that until that moment. He felt embarrassed, humiliated for himself. The man came and Patrick stayed until he was asked to leave. It was only two hours work. He was back at his hotel room by 1 AM with a voicemail from the company about the request TipWell put in for three days in California.

Patrick called them back immediately, once he’d spat three capfuls of mouthwash down the sink. He told them he wanted the slot. Why wouldn’t he want his brains fucked out like that again? It made him forget, almost, for a moment. They asked if he wanted to withdraw after, like he’d said originally. He was going to stop when the tour was over, when he could live comfortably in a paid off house with all the royalties he’d made. 

“Can I think about it?” he said instead. He wasn’t sure why.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the comments, now for more angst lol

Patrick hated young clients the most. There was always this fear that never went away with them. What if they used to listen to Fall Out Boy? What if they came to the show beforehand? What if they could tell it was Patrick Stump, out of the fatness, the sideburns and the clumsy overdressed disguise? What if they knew him.

So far so good. He had another young one tonight. It was a full night of it. They met at a bar, like promised. He was a trust fund type, like the way Pete should have been, if he’d followed his path. His forehead was high and tight, like he was already botoxing life away. His hairline was dissolving from a smooth curve into a widow’s peak. Patrick picked up on the flaws now, so he could hate him later.

“You look like a Lukas,” the man said. It was an open insult. Patrick didn’t take the bait, just smiled and felt sorry for anyone in life that was ever called Lukas and bumped into this dude.

“Is that not good?” Patrick offered up. He drank a stupid cocktail that was sent his way. He wasn’t a cocktail guy. This wasn’t his thing at all. 

“It’s alright.” The man looked at Patrick some more. He licked his lips and sat back, as if hiring Patrick was really done as a favor. “You like big dicks, Lukas? Mines a real fat one. Think you can handle it?”

No man that ever said those words in such a way would have a dick worthy of mentioning. Patrick looked down though, into his drink, like the thought made him nervous. “I’ve not been with a whole lotta guys.”

The man waved a hand dismissively, like he saw through the charade. “It’ll be fine.”

Sure, it was fine, apart from the minor argument about why Mr SmallDickBigEgo had to wear a condom. Patrick didn’t break character, but made remarks about how it was easier to clean up and how it had to be that way. SDBE made murmurings about how he wasn’t going to tip as much now, but big deal. Patrick didn’t care.

It was doggystyle. It was nearly always doggystyle with these dudes. He came quick of course, spanking Patrick across either cheek as if he was a horse. He was called slut ten times over. He was spat on. It was degrading, but whatever, Patrick had been degraded in pretty much every way at this point. He waited it out. 

“You’re not the best I’ve had,” SDBE said thirty minutes later. They always wanted to finish with blow jobs. Why was that? When Patrick was in relationships they were often more of a precursor to sex. Now he just associated them with the taste of sweat, of latex, of men staring down at him, wondering whether it was worth trying to choke him or not.

All Patrick wanted to do in that moment was drag his teeth across the sensitive flesh of the dude’s cock. To see how he liked that. Patrick didn’t want to be naked, and on his knees, ass slick with lube. He didn’t want to have this guy’s dick in his mouth any more than this guy wanted him to look the way he did. He was sensible though, he didn’t want to go and get himself beat up or raped. He had another show tomorrow. He couldn’t risk anything.

The guy shot his load over Patrick’s face. He looked angry as if Patrick had done something wrong. Maybe he hadn’t been soft enough, maybe he hadn’t cried. SDBE seemed the sort to want his partner to cry. He’d been botoxing his emotions away, but Patrick could smell the self-loathing a mile off.

He left with money in his pocket and a hope that the next three clients were a little more interesting. He hated men like that, where the sex was nothingness, but the tone of every comment and conversation was centering him at the butt of the joke. He’d always been sensitive. No change there. 

 

“What are you going to do when the tour is over?” Patrick looked up from where he was resting his head against the table on the bus. At the start of the tour, Michael had been teaching Patrick to read music a little better. That was before everything, back when he thought they might have had something. When Michael had looked at him in certain ways and Patrick’s stomach had flipped.

“I don’t know,” Patrick said. He lifted his cheek from the table and watched as Michael dipped a teabag into a hot mug of water. He pushed it over to Patrick, who took it with a smile. Michael sat down opposite him, his long legs pressed close to Patrick’s. “Go home, I guess.”

“LA or Chicago?” Michael asked instead. Patrick rocked a shoulder, cupping his fingers around the mug.

“Chicago. It’s my forever home. I’m gonna sell my LA place when I get round to it.” Not for the money. Patrick wouldn’t need cash so desperately then, but what was the point of a place like that if he wasn’t a reclusive rock star? 

“I’ll be there too. So, if you ever need anything. A friend or someone… I don’t know.” Michael shrugged, uncomfortable and clearly unable to provide whatever it was he was claiming he could do for Patrick. Patrick didn’t push it. What would be the point?

“I know I can count on you,” Patrick paused. He drank his tea, looking everywhere but at his friend. 

 

Patrick’s dreams had become uneasy. Ever since his night with TipWell. _“Don’t think of me.”_ Why had he said that? Why had he made Patrick slip into a darker side of himself, full of things he’d wanted once, but never allowed himself to really imagine.

He thought about what it would be like when he showed up in California, with a small bag of clothes in his hands. Would he even need them? Did he even want to wear clothes? Would he be kept in a hotel room? Or in a guest bedroom? Would there be others? Patrick hoped not. It was in his limit list he’d sent to the company. No parties, no restraints. He wanted it so that it stopped his mind ticking over other things.

 

When they finally rolled around to California, Patrick was tired beyond everything else. He wanted the world to collapse on him, so that he was crushed; so that no one would dare think to look for him. He didn’t want to die, but he wanted to just not exist. 

His last show was the night before he was going to TipWell’s house. Everyone was tired, but they pulled it together. Patrick was in the exhaustive state of wanting to sob and scream his emotions out on stage. _I’m whoring myself out to fund this tour and this is how you all treat me?_ His last show forever. He couldn’t do it anymore, he couldn’t be the old Patrick they wanted, or the new one, that he thought was true. He’d run back to Chicago and never look back.

There was an afterparty, but Patrick didn’t stick around for it. He didn’t have anything to celebrate anymore. If anything, it just gave him an opportunity to run away from it all. He left everyone partying, celebrating the complete downfall from his own career. He went back to his empty house in LA, he took a shower, scrubbed the show from his skin. He went to his closest and pulled out jeans, a button down. He combed his hair until it was flat over his face. He looked at himself in the mirror and wasn’t entirely sure he liked what he saw. But it wasn’t about him.

Patrick called a cab and had it take him to TipWell’s house. He had his phone with him this time, zipped into the pocket of his jacket. He didn’t want to leave it for three days. He had a phone call from the company and he picked up. They were telling him to message them after a few hours, to make sure things were going okay. That’s what they did to check in on long haul sessions. 

Patrick was nervous and excited. He no longer had to hide things anymore, didn’t have time creep back to hotels or lobbies in time for his bandmates, so they didn’t know he’d been gone all night. He didn’t have to worry about a rough voice or not being able to dance. 

The house was as nice as any other in a row of villas, all separate, all with gated entrances. Patrick wasn’t sure what to do, so he left the cab and stood outside the entrance for a while, finger on the buzzer. It was dark, it was after ten. Maybe they got their dates mixed up. Maybe TipWell had told the company the wrong one by mistake.

Eventually he was let in and he walked through the high fence until he was standing by the large front door. It opened immediately and TipWell stood there, in sweatpants and a t-shirt, smiling brightly.

“Sorry, I don’t know how to work the controls, I was pressing the wrong button,” he said brightly. "I usually have staff, but that didn’t seem like the right thing when I’m entertaining you.”

“Sounds like this isn’t a regular occurrence,” Patrick said frowning.

“I’m used to the company of paid lovers, I just don’t normally have them in my home,” the man said brightly. He walked briskly through the hall of his home. Patrick followed behind, until they reached a large kitchen. It was all metals and chrome. There was nothing to suggest a family, a wife or children. Patrick felt relief slide deep down into his bones.

“I’m different?” Patrick wasn’t fishing for compliments. He just wasn’t sure how he could possibly have a lasting impact on anyone. When TipWell sat at the kitchen table, Patrick took a seat next to him.

“You don’t fake it like the rest. You don’t even try to please like they do,” he said, but Patrick just laughed softly.

“It probably means they’re better at their jobs than me,” Patrick said. This had only been part time, and he was a newbie. Patrick paused his inner monologue. He couldn’t believe he was actually trying to apologize in his head.

“Not better, but your restraint was unnecessary. I like to feel an open connection.” The man smiled at Patrick. His skin was in good condition for his age; a little weathered, tan but not damaged. “You remind me of an old love. The way you look. Your quietness.”

“Okay.” Patrick didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t used to so much talking. The man leant over and grabbed his hand. Patrick let it happen.

“This is me explaining things. My man is dead, long dead. Since the eighties.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Is fine.” He waved a hand, his accent a little thicker. “But you look like him. You give me that back. Telling you to think of someone else helped, didn’t it? An old love of yours?”

Patrick felt his face burn. Pete had never been an old love of his. A crush once, a thousand years back, but never anything more. Patrick had thought he’d left the feelings way behind, past the shit of the last few years.

“Just someone I haven’t thought about in a long time,” Patrick said eventually, with a shrug. “So, I’m here as a placeholder? I don’t mind that.”

“Good. I have condoms, or have you bought your own?” you always bring your own, that was the first thing Patrick had been informed about with the company. He pulled them out of his backpack and placed them on the side. “That is fine. No cameras, no videos. Anything you’re not comfortable with, tell me about beforehand, but other than that, are you good?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” Patrick smiled, his heart starting to race. 

For a vocation that made him feel so dirty, Patrick sure did spend a vast amount of time in the shower. He was alone this time, allotted time for himself. It made more sense now why he’d been chosen, that he wasn’t special in any way, but simply reminded TipWell of the past. Patrick wasn’t disappointed, rather relieved. It was concern for himself really, about what this meant.

“What was his name?” the man said, when Patrick was finished in the shower. He had a towel over his waist and one rubbing through his hair. The man was sitting by the edge of his bed, staring at Patrick.

“Does it matter?” Patrick asked. Was he even Lukas to the guy? Did it matter now? Patrick had left his past life behind him, all of two hours ago. There was a line drawn in the sand and he’d stepped over. This may as well be his new life.

 

There was nothing to it, really. Having sex. Patrick remembered being a nervous teenager around girls, around boys. The buzz of what he hadn’t known. The excitement of what he’d never known. He knew it all now, pretty much.

Is this really what it would feel like with Pete? Getting fucked on his hands and knees. The hands were firm on his hips, clamping down tight enough that they’d bruise. Ordinarily, he’d tell him to ease it, to soften his grip. Bruises weren’t a good look. Other clients wouldn’t like the memory of Lukas not being the energetic virgin they’d hired. He didn’t care now, and he had time for the bruises to fade.

The hands became smaller as he closed his eyes. The laugh familiar than the grunt. He knew he shouldn’t do it, shouldn’t go to that part of his head. He was Lukas here, he was just making money. But but…

He couldn’t help it. But it was good, and it couldn’t…it wouldn’t be like that otherwise. He was on his hands and knees and he was pushing back into every thrust, chasing the penetration. The low laugh turned higher in his ears, awkward. Pete had an awkward laugh, almost like a cry. He would find it funny, how Patrick was begging for it. He’d never done that before.

Patrick lay on his stomach afterward, stomach wet and sticky, looking at the back lit headboard. This was a nice bedroom, it was warm and inviting. He felt embarrassed, going into the daydream of Pete. It had been his name he’d called out at the end. Begging for it.

Patrick hid the shame of what he’d done between bouts of more sex. Everywhere was sore afterward, he had an aching jaw for holding it open between a laboriously slow blow job. His ass was fucked on and off, leaving him high and ready to come. The man would slide in every so often and then, just when Patrick got used to it, started to want it harder, he’d pull out and away.

“Is that good for you?” Patrick asked after the fourth time. He was still on his back, legs still raised. TipWell’s dick looked painful, swollen and red. Patrick couldn’t see how it was a good time for him.

“Orgasm denial is amazing,” he said instead. He drank a bottle of water as Patrick finally lowered his legs. Patrick couldn’t come again, he was way past that stage, but he was comfortable, for the most part. 

“We’re going out tomorrow night. A party. Is that okay?” the man asked. Patrick knew his name, but he preferred The Man or TipWell. Made it easier to swallow what he was doing. “It’s for work.”

“I guess that’s fine,” Patrick said, though he wasn’t sure. How many parties had he been to in LA. A lot. One more wouldn’t hurt, and this wasn’t his scene. No one would know him. “What’s your work?”

“Money,” TipWell said. “Boring stuff. But you’ll like it. You’re young.”

Not as young as you think, Patrick thought. Though when he was nineteen and of college age, he maybe wasn’t as young as he ought to be either. He’d seen so much on the road, seen and heard stories of groupies, of drugs and partying. He hadn’t partaken in it much himself but it was all similar.

The last time TipWell fucked him, Patrick was fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to sit down for days. It was rough, his body ached from being pulled apart. It was good. Patrick shut his eyes and imagined it was Pete. Pete inside him, fucking him raw, telling him he was good and he was perfect and not stopping at all. 

“I’m sore,” he said afterward, laughing. He was facing TipWell, both their chests rising and falling. There was so much lube oozing between his legs that his thighs kept sliding together. He was earning his money. “Should I not say that?”

“Some men like to know they made it hurt,” TipWell said casually. “It’s a good hurt, no?”

“It is, actually,” Patrick admitted. He laughed, even though it made his muscles pull. “I’ve never been with the guy that I’m thinking of.”

“No? But you wanted to?” TipWell said. He put a hand on Patrick’s hip, because he could, because he paid Patrick money to do so.

“Along time ago I did, yeah. I didn’t realize I still wanted it.” Maybe Patrick didn’t... Maybe he was just using Pete to escape the hell he’d brought into his life. It was hard to tell. “We had a complicated relationship. It turned sour in the end.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” TipWell said. The hand that he’d been keeping low on Patrick’s back suddenly moved, until it was curling over Patrick’s ass, sliding between his cheeks. Patrick made out like he didn’t care, even if he wanted anything but that. In that moment, he felt truly owned, like no part of himself truly belonged to him anymore.

“The party tonight is full of debauchery. Coke in the bathrooms, sex in the hot tubs. It’ll be full of whores, just like you.” That stung. Patrick could never quite understand this man, who was both gentle and cruel in his biting honesty. “I need you to be ready.”

“Ready for what?” Patrick asked. It felt a sick kind of anxiety about parties, which had never been his place of comfort. Back then he’d had people he knew and who knew him. He frowned, trying not to flinch when a hand cupped over his face. 

“In case I need to find you,” he laughed, slapping Patrick gently on the side of the face. “Give me your measurements and I’ll get you a suit.”

Patrick wasn’t needed for the rest of the day, which was odd. He was left sitting around in sweatpants, trying not to wince. He was sore, his ass hurt, and he was a little on edge too, like he wouldn’t mind stretching his lips over a cock, just to pass the time and forget his head for a little while.

He was found again a little after six, when TipWell came into the room with a zipped-up suit. Patrick stood up quickly, much to the quick laughter of the man. Patrick pursed his lips, and looked at it.

“I want you to wear everything in the bag. Understood? You may find your tip a little higher if you do so.”

“Of course.” Patrick didn’t call him TipWell for no reason. He smiled plainly. Nervous. Everything in the bag. That sounded like a warning. Patrick didn’t want to wear dress, make up. Lacy underwear was okay, he guessed, but not anything else. Nothing that anyone else could see. He’d risk no tip for that. He wasn’t touring anymore, he didn’t actually need the money.

The man left the room after telling Patrick to meet him in the garage in an hour’s time. He heard the sound of a shower running in a far-off room and approached the bag on the bed with trepidation. 

He didn’t have much to worry about. It was only a simple suit. Clean cut, no tie. Crisp white shirt way more expensive than any he’d worn on stage. He pulled it out and then frowned when he saw a square box at the bottom of the bag. He frowned and grabbed at it. It weighed heavier than he realized it would.

When he opened the box, it was to find a small black toy in the bottom. He took it between his fingers and grimaced. It was fairly average, not excessively big, but made of glass with a flared base. He hadn’t worn one before, but he knew what it was. Did he have to wear it to keep himself ready and open. What kind of party was this? Was Patrick on his way down into his first sex party? He’d had warnings about them, from the company he worked for. Never be coerced into doing one. Report any client that asks you to.

Patrick did as he was told though. He showered and stood in the bathroom, ignoring the sight of his body in the full-length mirror. He couldn’t look at it at all these days. It made him sick. He poured lube over the bulbous head of the plug and then pushed it inside himself. It hurt, from how well fucked he already was, but still behind the pain there was this low-level delirium like the pain could be something else.

There was this humiliation that he hadn’t yet felt. Patrick Stump had been touring his album the night before last. Patrick Stump had been on national TV playing his solo music three months back. Patrick Stump was wearing a toy in his ass for extra tips. How the not-so mighty had fallen. He pulled the rest of his clothes on, feeling his dignity fade with every pull of his muscles. He was trying not to clench because the more he clenched the harder it was to forget.

He shuffled into the garage five minutes past their agreed time. TipWell laughed at him, like he could see the discomfort on Patrick’s face. He couldn’t work out how he got to this place even when the stepping stone toward it had always been so clear.

“Why am I wearing this?” Patrick asked, feeling the embarrassment in the tone of his voice, in how it was barely above a whisper. “I don’t like it.”

“You’re not paid to like it,” Tipwell said. He pulled Patrick close by the hips, waiting on Patrick’s solitary nod of the head before he laughed. “The suit is the right cut for you. It’s good. Are you ready?”

The drive over was the most uncomfortable of Patrick’s life. He’d toured in stinky, broken vans and lived months on the road in tour buses, but sitting on his plugged ass in slacks that slipped against the smooth leather seats with every jolt, made him acutely aware of his entire body.

They pulled up outside a nondescript villa. Not unlike the one he’d spent the past 24 hours at. There were people around, so many people. Patrick didn’t know any of them, but still, it felt like he was diving back into the world he’d been so desperate to escape.

Patrick was left alone at the bar with the promise that he’d be called upon if needed. He didn’t know what type of party this was, whether he was being brought here as a test of his humiliation, or whether there was actual work that TipWell needed to do. Maybe this was where he made his deals. If that was what he did. Maybe he was a gangster. Maybe Patrick was in deeper shit than he realized.

“Well, would you check this out!” Patrick froze at the voice. He couldn’t help it. He’d recognize it anywhere; years of arguments, the way his tone would change depending on who he was talking to. Before that, when Patrick was fresh faced and naïve. Back when he joined that stupid band with that stupid local celebrity. “Patrick fucking Stump!”

“Hey.” Patrick was surprised he was even able to get that out. He hadn’t ordered yet, but he looked around to see whether TipWell was watching. Patrick couldn’t see him. His flicked his attention back onto Pete again. No. It couldn’t be him standing there, staring at Patrick in all his expensive looking glory.

“Damn, you look good. How’s the tour? Let me get you a drink.” Pete waved a hand toward the attention of the closest bartender and threw down his order. Patrick felt sick, clenching tight to the horrid humiliation wedged inside him. If only Pete knew. If only Pete knew just how the tour had gone.

“I just finished the tour,” Patrick managed to blurt out. “What are you doing here?”

“Business stuff,” Pete shrugged. “I’m a silent member in like a production company and they’re throwing it. I don’t even know how that happened. I must’ve been manic when I put my name to paper, but whatever. Here I am. What are you doing here? You hate parties.”

“I came with a friend... who is doing business,” Patrick said and then paused. That sounded awkward and false. He saw the way Pete’s lips twisted in confusion. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“That’s alright. We got each other, right?” Pete said, winking. He clapped the edges of their glasses together. Patrick wanted to cry, but just downed his drink instead. 

“We have each other,” he agreed, but it was all lies. They hadn’t had each other in a long time. In particularly bitter moments, Patrick wondered if they ever had each other at all. “So, what have you been up to?”

“Being a daddy, being a responsible adult. Trying to do the right thing by everyone. It’s fucking killer, dude. I’m alright at it. I guess,” Pete shrugged, leaning against the bar. He kept staring at Patrick’s finely tailored suit. If only he knew. If only he knew that Patrick was a whore, and thinking about Pete was the only way he could currently come to terms with it.

“And now you’re here to let your hair down?” Patrick teased. It was hard being Patrick to Pete and Lukas to everyone else in the room. To everyone else he was just another whore rented out for the night. They must all know. They must all be able to tell. Could Pete? 

“You sure you’re okay, Patrick?” Pete asked. Patrick whipped his head around to make sure TipWell wasn’t close by. No one could hear that was his name. 

“I’m fine,” Patrick lied. He tried to smile in the way old Patrick would, amiable Patrick who never wanted to cause trouble or a fuss. “We can meet up if you like, but I need to go.”

“Uh okay.” Pete’s eyebrows raised, but thankfully he left it at that. Patrick finished the drink and was pulled into a warm hug by Pete before he could go. He held close for a few seconds, just so that their chests were pushed tight together. They hadn’t hugged like this in forever, not toward the end of their career as bandmates. Maybe when Bronx was born if they looked back far enough. That was what? Three years now? 

“I have to go,” Patrick said, pulling away. He felt empty afterward, like something shriveled and cold. He pushed his hair back and shrugged, trying not to let his face show anything. He shuffled away, feeling the plug inside.

Patrick wasn’t feeling sociable, nor was he feeling in the mood to stand there and feel pretty, waiting for TipWell to use him. He walked away from the party and outside where they’d dropped the car with the valet. He wasn’t sure what one they arrived in, or who had taken the car. So he stood and waited. He waited outside around the corner, away from the mouth of the entrance, so no one could see him and want him and bring him back inside.

 

Patrick wasn’t even sure how they ended up back at TipWell’s house. He must have found him, brought him back to the car. He came to consciousness naked on his hands and knees. Everything hurt, everything felt weird from behind held open for hours to being fucked roughly, but he oddly couldn’t feel anything.

“That man you spoke to, he was your guy,” TipWell was saying. Patrick was on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He was past crying at this point, but he wasn’t sure whether he was past digging his own grave and climbing in, if only for a little while.

“Yeah he was.” Patrick wiped at his face, ignoring the movements beside him. The tug of a condom being pulled off, the sound of a happy sigh. “I don’t know what he was doing there, but I don’t think he did either. That’s just the way he is.”

“Does he know you do this though?” TipWell laughed, like there was a joke in the cruelty. Patrick just pursed his lips. He really wanted to go home. Wherever that was.

Patrick got his tip, just like agreed, for wearing the buttplug, but he knew his services wouldn’t be asked for again. That first time in the hotel room after a gig, it had something to do with his mood that night, the tension in the room. It hadn’t been recreated over the days he was here. If anything, he’d fallen further into his pit of despair.


	3. Chapter 3

Pete tried calling Patrick over the next few days, but Patrick didn’t answer. He locked himself in his bedroom in his house in LA. At first he cried his body sick, but then he exhausted himself. He didn’t cry any longer, but he didn’t eat either. It felt worse than the flood of tears. He just laid there, unmoving, waiting for the nothingness to take him over. He would pull himself together eventually, because that’s what Patrick Stump always did, but he just needed to find himself again first.

Patrick left LA before speaking with Pete. He couldn’t face talking to him and touching him and wondering if he had any clue what Patrick was doing with himself. Wouldn’t it be hilarious if Pete had picked someone else up at the party? He wondered whether they were as expensive as Patrick.

He cried some more when he made it back to Chicago. He didn’t know how to be musician Patrick these days, but somehow nobody Patrick was even worse. This second house of his was mortgage free, he didn’t have to pay anything for it; it would keep itself with his royalties. What was he to do now? Watch the boxsets everyone had insisted he’d missed out on? Find a new way to make music without breaking his heart again? He wasn’t sure that was possible anymore.

Patrick locked all the doors in his small Illinois house and unplugged all cables relating to communication and sighed in relief when his two phones finally died from lack of charging. He wanted to find a closet large enough for him to fit in and hide out. He felt exposed, even in his own house. Then he felt embarrassed by his own thoughts, ashamed that this had happened. On tour things hadn’t felt like this; he hadn’t fallen apart once when he was hiding his second income. 

On his third day home, he finally took a shower and felt a little better for it. He put on soft clothes from forever ago. The suits and cases from tour were still sitting in his hallway, ready to be laundered and tucked away never to be worn again. He couldn’t bring himself to look at them just yet. The clothes he’d pulled on were too large, but he wore them like safety blankets. He even heated up some soup he found in the back of a cupboard. In date, but he didn’t suppose it mattered too much. He ate it, staring out of the dusty windows of his kitchen. He hadn’t felt this quiet and silent in so long. He could hear the blood pumping; when he shut his eyes, he had fragments of memories. White teeth and a familiar laugh, the touch of foreign hands on his skin. Joe’s stupid jokes. The looks Michael used to shoot his way before he found out the truth.

By the fifth day the cases were still laying in the hall, but his rugs had been vacuumed, his floors polished. He’d found candles in the back of a closet and lit them, to bring a scent of sandalwood and Jasmin to his house. None of these things were what Patrick would do. Patrick would have had his mom round, shouting him into this type of action. Maybe he was finally an adult, taking responsibility and doing chores. That sounded better; more proactive than the thought that he was just running away from his life.

_Hi. We haven’t heard anything from you in over a week now. Please get in contact if you’d like to continue your work with us._

They never mentioned names. Patrick wondered if the business was legal or not. Did they work under the assumption that they simply matched would-be partners? He didn’t know. Patrick was supposed to tell them he was done now. He was. He didn’t need the extra cash. He had enough cushion for six months or so. Hopefully by that point he would have something else going for him.

But then he thought more about it. He’d been dead inside for months now, and it only felt worse as he sat inside his forgotten house in Chicago, with the ominous suitcase of sodden sad memories laying in the corner. He agreed to continue, for a few weeks at least. He needed to be out of the house.

He had clothes suitable for clients. Suits at the back of the closet from weddings he attended before he started his solo stuff. He cleaned himself up, shaved, styled his hair in the Lukas way and tightened the belt on his smart pants. One notch in than normal. 

He’d skipped out on working when he was performing in Chicago, because of his duty to family and friends and the shame would have been harder to hide. He made his way downtown though, to a hotel room just like all the other hotel rooms he’d worked in. Something inside was picking up speed, excitement, like how he felt all those years ago, when he enjoyed performing. The thrill of adrenaline. He put the weirdness of his time with TipWell to the back of his mind, walking through the hotel lobby and checking Lukas’ phone.

 

He ended up on the twelfth floor of the hotel, smiling at a man maybe in his late thirties, called Paul. He smiled at Patrick, looked him up and down and told him to count the money out before he accepted. He did as he was told, and then did it again when it wasn’t correct. He looked over at Paul, in his smart polo and chinos, waiting on a response.

“I’m paying double,” he said lightly, brightly. Patrick pursed his lips and slowly folded the notes back inside the paper envelope. “My husband will be joining us. It’s a surprise.”

“I didn’t know,” Patrick said slowly. He tucked the money into the side of his jacket. “My agency didn’t inform me.”

“I didn’t tell them.” Paul’s face squeezed up and he looked apologetically embarrassed. “I didn’t think I’d go through with it, but he’s always wanted a threesome, and this is the best way to give it to him. No one personal to him.”

“I’m not going to get dp’d,” Patrick warned. Two somehow felt scarier than one. Patrick was a small dude, it wouldn’t take much to pin him down. 

“We’re not that hardcore,” Paul said. He touched the side of Patrick’s face and stroked his thumb down it. “We both used to have a thing for blonds like you. You can leave if you like, but I promise we won’t hurt you.”

Patrick didn’t believe in promises anymore. They couldn’t be kept. So he agreed to it. He took his clothes off and he knelt on the bed and he let Paul nervously talk at him and text his husband about the room.

“He’s called Eric. God, he’s gonna love you,” Paul was saying, touching Patrick, because he’d paid to do it. Hand on the small of his back; hand on his ass. There was a knock at the door and Paul sprang to life. 

Patrick watched as he left the room, closing the door behind. Maybe trying to explain what was happening. Shit, maybe the husband would freak out and leave, maybe he’d divorce Paul for buying them a whore and Patrick would be to blame for that too. 

Paul came back with his hands slapped over Eric’s eyes. Oh Christ. What was Patrick to do but remain awkwardly on his knees, on the soft mattress and hope he didn’t overreact. Patrick licked his lips and looked down. He waited for the grand reveal. There was mostly silence of first.

“Paul, who is this?” Eric was saying. Patrick could hear excitement in his tone. Fuck. Patrick was almost hoping for anger. Now he’d have to work all night and try not to feel awkward. He hadn’t ever had a threesome in his normal life. He didn’t know how it worked. Pete had. He’d bragged about it on the tour bus afterward.

“This is Lukas. He wants you. He’s happy to share us. For tonight.” Both of them were looking at him when he sneaked a glance. He didn’t know what to do, so he tried a half smile. Keep it shy, keep it inexperienced. 

Patrick had a dick in his mouth in next to no time. Eric’s. This was his treat after all. They kind of looked the same to Patrick. Fairish, close to forties and fit, like they worked out at the same gym together, eyeing up separate people for a threesome. Patrick hadn’t ever spent much time at a gym. He was slim right now, but not fit in that way. 

“Good boy,” Someone said to him. Eric’s hand was in his hair, stroking him. There was the sound of kissing. Patrick tried to focus on giving head instead. Suck Eric off, give him the blowjob of his life, that’s what Paul had said to him. Patrick had to work for his money.

Then he was pulled off and briefly confused, gulping for air, but then, no. Different dick. Paul’s. A bit bigger, more hair. Patrick felt shame spiking at his skin as he sucked. He was just a vessel now. 

There were wet fingers on his ass, sliding down his cleft as he licked a solid stripe up the cock in front of him. When he looked up, Paul wasn’t looking at him, but at where Eric was starting to finger him. Patrick got a little hard, at the slick penetration. He opened his mouth wider. 

He hadn’t sucked dick and got fucked simultaneously before and so he stopped mouthing at the cock in front of him as Eric slid in. Patrick hadn’t checked to see if he was wearing a condom. He couldn’t tell now. He’d been too busy sucking cock to listen to the familiar sound of foil being ripped. 

“Is he tight?” Paul was saying, as Eric thrust a little too hard; a little too enthusiastic. He didn’t top often, Patrick could tell. Maybe more than Patrick, who didn’t do it much at all. But still, it was jagged instead of smooth.

“Fuck yeah he is,” Eric said. That was a fucking relief. Patrick opened his mouth, and Paul nodded, sliding in. Getting spit roasted was the weirdest thing in the world to Patrick. Just the sensation. They got into a rhythm. One in, then the other out. Patrick went with the motions, every so often the pattern would falter and Patrick would end up with a mouth and ass full of dick. He’d never felt so full.

“Come inside him. Use him.” Paul was saying. Patrick felt dirty and gross, his hips hurt because Eric was gripping them too tight. He was still a little bruised from TipWell. Eric came, and Patrick’s nose bumped Paul’s cock in front of him. “I want to be where he’s just been.”

Patrick was confused at first, but then he was being pushed onto his back. There was a body beneath him, Eric holding him. Patrick’s legs were pulled open, put on show. He wanted to say something but he didn’t know what. Paul reached for a condom. Thank god. Eric’s fingers from one of the hands holding him open slide down, past Patrick’s dick, which was still hard, and down to where he’d already been fucked open. His fingers slide lazily inside. Paul was watching. Patrick wanted to come and die at the same moment.

“You don’t do this for me,” Paul said with a smirk. He was staring at where Patrick was pink and stretched, at where he had fingers pulling him open. He was so humiliated. He was so turned on. He just wanted to go home. Or go back five years when he didn’t hate absolutely every side of himself. 

Then Paul was on top of him, Patrick pinned down between both their bodies. Fingers were still tucked into his body as Paul’s cock pushed in. It hurt. Patrick hissed, but tried to hide it. They shushed him. The fingers left his body and the cock filled him up and then he was just fucked. 

Patrick closed his eyes and thought of Pete. He thought of Pete holding him like this and fucking him, telling him he was so good and perfect and that he was tight and amazing. He imagined having his own fingers in his ass, and feeling Pete fuck him. Their noses bumping as they tried to kiss and breathe at the same time.

He came early on, but no one really noticed. They were kissing each other, saying how good it felt, as if Patrick wasn’t even there. He couldn’t think of Pete in the aftermath. And now, it was more like he was a tight hole that belonged to Eric or Paul or someone else. Patrick was just this mute little slut as far as either of them were concerned. When Paul came, Patrick just ached. 

It hurt when Paul let him up. Just enough space for Patrick to crawl out of. He tried to stand up, but his knees buckled and he dropped to the floor. He looked behind, but they were tucked up on the bed. They were staring at each other, mumbling sleepy comments to each other. He wasn’t missed. He stumble-crawled his way to the bathroom and locked the door.

Years of living on the bus, of living in close proximity of other people meant Patrick knew how to keep quiet. He wept over the basin, with the shower running. He wanted to be sick but he climbed into the shower instead and cried silently. No one would want him anymore, not if they ever found out what he’d done. He wouldn’t ever get someone like those two had. They should’ve just used a fleshlight for all of the use Patrick had been. He had to stop. He turned the water to cold, until he started to shiver. It sobered him up. He slapped his face and then dried off. 

Patrick found his clothes and pulled them on. All his muscles pulled. He didn’t really want to go into the other room and see some sweet married couple ogle each other some more, but climbing out of the window wasn’t a choice either. 

He bit the bullet and unlocked the bathroom door. There was heavy breathing coming from the bed. Patrick glanced over. They both looked asleep. Relief flooded him. He walked over to the door and slid on his shoes. They needed lacing, but he didn’t bother. He just opened and closed the door as quietly as he could.

 

Patrick ended up walking the streets of the city instead of heading home. No one recognized him, they never did, even back in the marred golden days of FOB’s peak. He was glad for it now more than ever. He walked until his feet were sore and he was worried he’d miss the last train back home. He didn’t want to waste his hard-earned money on a cab fare.

On his way home he checked his recharged Patrick phone and saw he had two messages from Pete. One apologizing for whatever he did and another saying he missed him. Patrick pressed his lips together and looked out of the blurry window. He was probably getting spit roasted when Pete sent it. There was only one other person in the carriage with him, but he needed to keep it together. 

_Sorry I flaked_ Patrick texted back without another explanation. He clicked his phone off and stood up the rest of the journey, until he made it back to his station. There were easier ways to get in and out of the city for a man with his means. The closer he got to home, the heavier his heart felt. When he saw the suitcase laying in the hallway, beyond his open door, he felt like throwing up. He closed his front door and walked up the stairs and through his bedroom door.

 

He ended up in this pathetic little routine. He became Lukas every night, piling up his tip money, watching his account fill up every time the company transferred his money. He still had a mountain of bills to pay, but that was okay. It was a little easier now that he wasn’t touring every night.

Pete tried calling him all the fucking time, leaving messages about how he had a weird feeling and would Patrick just fucking text him or something. He didn’t. He deleted the messages, staring at the luggage in the corner, waiting for his other phone to ring, to let him know where Lukas was needed next.

He’d started to clock up a few regulars after a while of living back in Chicago. Business men in the city that didn’t want to return home to their wives; that wanted to spend an hour or so a night with their dicks in the wet hole of Lukas’ mouth. He got paid and he got attention, but it didn’t stop the gaping hole of despair in his own chest, widening every night. He wasn’t sure if he felt more dead or more raw from it.

He had a new client one night, some guy that wanted the full works dinner and a date. Patrick dressed and thought about it. A night of vague pleasantries over soup before he was back on his hands and knees. All the hotels were becoming familiar to him now, the upmarket ones that his clients enjoyed so much. Classier than the ones he’d stayed in with Fall Out Boy.

They were eating at the hotel restaurant, though meeting in the hotel room first. For monetary reasons and probably for a pre-dinner blow job. Patrick knew how it went, he’d find the men pathetic if he actually cared.

He knocked on the door number listed in the text and slid Lukas’ phone into the side pocket of his jacket and waited for the bland white door to open. He didn’t even get nervous these days. He’d sat on the dicks of half the closeted businessmen in the city, what was another?

He almost felt to his knees when the door finally opened up. As it widened, there stood Pete looking like he’d been anticipating Patrick for a while. They stood staring for a solid three seconds before Patrick started to panic. No, he thought. _No no no_. He took a step backward, but then Pete launched forward and grabbed at him, yanking him into the room. 

“Get the fuck in here.” Pete slammed the door behind him and then turned. Before Patrick could even think, Pete’s hand was swinging at him and Patrick fell to his knees as Pete’s fist flew into his right cheek. He still grabbed at his face and shielded himself. He was going to pass out, he was sure of it. “Did that knock any fucking sense into you?”

Patrick blinked, frozen in time. He prayed he was frozen, frozen so that he wouldn’t ever have to deal with this situation. Thirty seconds later, he realized he was shaking like a fluttering leaf. His face was wet too. Blood or tears, maybe both. He didn’t know what to do. He looked up, away from Pete standing there and muttering things that Patrick was trying to block out. He saw the door to the bathroom and made his great escape. He ran to it and closed the door, locking it behind him. He fell to his ass and his face fell into his knees, sobbing silently.

“Patrick, what the fuck. Okay hang on. Let me in?” Pete asked but Patrick shook his head. He heard the soft thud of his friend taking a seat on the opposite side of the door. Pete’s voice was both high and husky. He was panicking too. “Patrick, what the fuck are you playing at.”

“I’m not playing at anything,” Patrick managed to say eventually. He’d stopped crying, but his face felt sticky and swollen, his cheek a little sore from Pete’s attempted sense-knocking. He felt close to the edge, nauseas, though he hadn’t eaten in a few hours.

“You’re having sex for money,” Pete said. “I knew there was something wrong. You seemed…out of it at that party and then you wouldn’t return my calls. I contacted Michael and he told me.” 

“He had no right,” Patrick said, feeling a sudden burst of anger toward Michael, who had never been anything but kind and sweet and generous until he’d found out what Patrick had resorted to. Then he’d just been distant.

“I pressured him. He was worried.” Patrick stared down at his neatly pressed pants, the smart shoes on his feet. He tried to take in what Pete was saying, but he wasn’t there yet. Pete couldn’t know about this side of Patrick. He couldn’t.

“He never tried to stop me though. He just looked the other way,” Patrick said. He rested his head against the back of the door and tried not to think about the tour and everything that happened. 

“Patrick, let me in,” Pete said softly. His voice was soft and gentle, but he sounded almost like he wanted to cry. “Why are you still doing it now?”

"I don’t know. It just felt better than staying at home. I don’t know. I can’t breathe unless I’m doing this and even though it’s shitty it’s better than the alternative.” 

“How?” Pete asked, but he wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t understand how much Patrick hated himself beyond the sex work. It had been self-loathing that had got him to agree to do it in the first place.

“I don’t like being Patrick anymore.” There was a heat spreading all over his skin, pinpricking his cheeks, even the one that was sore and bleeding. “I dunno. I hate the way it makes me feel but feeling that is better than nothing else.”

Being so straight forward with the truth left a bitter taste in Patrick’s mouth, though his shoulders felt lighter from a lifted weight. He leaned against the door and sighed. His cheeks felt swollen and damp and he wanted nothing more than a cold hole in the ground to engulf him completely. So that no one would have to deal with him or his mess again.

“Patrick, will you open up?” Pete asked and Patrick, in his otherwise clueless state of mind, just nodded and lifted his hand to the bolt, sliding it open. He had to shift out of the way, as Pete was already pushing it open. Pete was pulling Patrick up from the ground, pulling him into a tight hug and holding him tight to his chest. He was crying too, Patrick realized. He didn’t know what to do with that information. 

Patrick sat on the hotel bed with Pete beside him. They had the TV on for some background noise and Patrick wondered whether he was supposed to be saying anything, to start a rambling explanation about how he ended up doing this or what. He sat elbow to elbow with Pete and said nothing, eyes burning against the flashing lights of the TV.

“I’m taking you home,” Pete said eventually, standing up. “We're going back to yours. Couldn’t you have just done cam work instead?”

“I don’t allow videos,” Patrick answered softly, with a shrug. 

Patrick followed Pete like a sedated child, wandering in his footsteps, too close, but not wanting to lose touch. Scared, maybe, of what would happen if they somehow got lost from each other. They ended up in the back of a cab and Patrick heard Pete stumble over Patrick’s address, looking to him with confirmation. Patrick nodded and then closed his eyes, resting his head against the window.

Patrick went to sleep not long after they made it to his place. He pulled off his suit and climbed under his sheets, face down on the pillows. He slept solidly and without break, only waking when the light was already streaming through his windows. He blinked and the humiliation and devastation of the night before came at him hard and fast. He shook it away and stumbled from the bed and into the shower.

He tried not to think at all when he was in the shower, not about himself or his body, not about Pete and how he’d used Pete in his mind, as a way to get through some of the experiences. Jesus. If Pete had known what Patrick had really done, he wouldn’t talk to him at all.

He found Pete after his shower, sitting at the small kitchen table with his head in his hands. Patrick wasn’t sure whether to approach or run and hide again, but he decided maybe it was time to face up to things. He felt Pete’s eyes on him as he took a seat beside him.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” Pete said quietly. “I shouldn’t have done it. I just didn’t know what to do when I saw you.”

“That’s okay.” Patrick paused. He’d forgotten about that. “I’ve fucked up really bad.”

“We’re gonna sort it. I found your….work phone, I text the company and said you didn’t want anymore work. They agreed to cancel any further appointments. It was easier than I thought.”

“They’ve been good,” Patrick said. For a company dealing in an illegal trade, they looked after him pretty well.

“Don’t say that,” Pete said though, his voice cold and dark. “Don’t fucking say they’ve been good to you. Has anyone hurt you?”

“Hurt me?” of course he’d been hurt. Sex generally hurt at times, but he didn’t think that was what Pete getting at. “Do you mean against my will? No, that’s never happened. Clients go through checks and I can handle myself.”

“Clients go through checks?” Pete was getting worked up. His voice was shaking and his knuckles were bulging as he tightened his hands into fists on the table. Patrick felt numb, a little empty. “Can you even hear yourself? How fucked up this is?”

“I know it is.” Patrick looked down at the table. The edge was wavering with water, but he tried to blink the tears away. “I just needed the money. It was the only way I could think—”

“That’s why you were acting so weird at that party. You were with a _client_.” Pete’s words were twisted on the last part, like they were bitter in his mouth. Patrick was aflame with shame. 

“That was supposed to be my last night,” Patrick said. “It had been my final tour date and I didn’t need the cash so readily once I was off, but I just… if I keep doing it then I don’t have to reflect.”

“It’s time to reflect,” Pete said calmly. When had he turned into a reasonable adult. Once upon a time, he’d have laughed his ass off about this. Text everyone on his sidekick about it. “You gotta face up to this, kid.”

“How did you find me?” Patrick asked instead. “How did you get them to match us.”

“I know you,” Pete said. He hadn’t looked at Patrick in all the time they’d been sat here together, but he did now. He looked Patrick full on in the face. “I asked for a blond twink, someone small and shy and native to Chicago. Plus I know your body. They showed me photos of the shortlist.”

“Right.” Patrick could feel the heat on his cheeks, burning the tears away. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Pete said, and his voice softened. “Patrick, you don’t have anything to be sorry about. You’ve been so fucking stupid, but I’m not angry at you. Just the situation.”

Patrick nodded his head, but suddenly everything seemed to crash over his head and he dropped his face down onto his kitchen table and wept. He sobbed it out until his chest ached with rawness and Pete’s hand on his shoulder felt nothing but another heavy weight.


	4. Chapter 4

They didn’t speak much about anything for the rest of the day. They sat in Patrick’s living room watching a box set. Something humorous but they both sat there, cringing at every forced joke, the laugh track ringing in their ears. Patrick was so aware of his body, of how he was sitting there beside Pete, with his body that so many men had used. He didn’t know the number, he wouldn’t ever know the number. Pete would know that too.

“So that suitcase…” Pete started to say. Patrick turned to face him and shrugged. “Can’t face unpacking?”

“I was so hopeful when I went out on tour. I was so excited. Then it all went to shit and everything changed. I take responsibility for my actions, no one made me do what I ended up doing but that suitcase, that bag of clothes is all I have left of that decision I made. I don’t know.” The more Patrick spoke, the more jumbled his head felt. “I just can’t unpack my literal physical baggage let alone the emotional shit.”

“It’s gonna have left a scar,” Pete warned, as if Patrick didn’t already know. He tensed a shoulder and wondered how Pete picked up on it. “I’ll help you through it. You know that, right?”

“You don’t have to,” Patrick said because there was a side of him that needed to push Pete away, because he knew the truth and that was scary. That was humiliating. “You don’t have to stay here with me. You don’t have to babysit me.”

“I’m not leaving you now,” Pete said. When Patrick turned to look at him his face was closed up, his lips pursed. Patrick had done that to him. He’d done that to an old friend. 

Pete ordered pizza which was a cliché, but it gave them something else to do and talk about. They sat in Patrick’s kitchen, the box open between them and mostly avoiding eye contact. That was until Pete opened his mouth again.

“Maybe you should see someone. Like a therapist, you know?”

“I don’t need to see anyone,” Patrick said, he’d been in therapy for years but had stopped going a while back. It just didn’t really help for him. He certainly wasn’t going to head back so he could talk in detail about all the cocks he’d stuffed into his mouth to keep the tour afloat. “Nothing bad happened to me.”

“I have a hard time believing that,” Pete said, but then took a bite from his pizza and stopped talking. 

 

Every time Patrick took a shower, he was reminded of what he did to himself. He would look down at his own body and see dozens of alien hands pawing at him. Some older, some young, none of them with any real distinguishing factor. They just belonged to the men that had bought him more time out on the road. It made him feel dirtier than before he turned the hot water on.

He’d stare at himself in the mirror and see fragments of the old Patrick looking back. Same lips, same nose, same jaw. But the pigment of his skin seemed affected, worn away into something more ghostly and insipid. It made him want to cry. He didn’t. He blamed the red eyes on shampoo. He didn’t want Pete knowing the truth.

And Pete would look at him afterwards, fresh from the shower and it was like he was seeing through Patrick. He was seeing beneath the clothes to the core, to the used up rotten core that had neither substance or life. That’s what it felt like; a burning acid hatred of himself or the way Pete looked at him with gentle concern. 

 

“You don’t have to stay with me,” Patrick said to Pete again late one night. He couldn’t get it out of his head, the idea that Pete was only here to keep a check on him. They’d gone out for dinner, and Patrick had been half paranoid about seeing an old customer, before realizing that a chain restaurant just outside the suburbs wasn’t really where he’d ever find a former client. “You can go back to LA if you want.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Pete questioned. Patrick licked his lips and shrugged. He didn’t know. “It’s cool hanging out as brothers again, right? Better than it ever has been really.”

“Sure.” Hanging out as brothers was quite possibly the worst thing to say. Patrick thought of all the ways he’d used Pete’s image in his mind, using him as a blocker to what he put himself through. It wasn’t bad, right? If he shut his eyes and pretended his former band mate was the one fucking him through the hotel mattress. “What about Bronx?”

“I speak to him every day. When he was first born we were on tour. It’s not ideal, but I’m not leaving you, Patrick. Not yet.” Patrick looked at Pete and saw the way he was looking down at the candle lit between them both, his cheeks almost looking flushed in the low lighting. Patrick must have imagine it. 

“You don’t trust me alone?” Patrick asked outright. Pete looked briefly like he wanted to lie before shrugging.

“You continued prostituting yourself when you didn’t even need the money anymore. I don’t think you’re healed enough yet to move on. I just want you to be okay. I just want my old Patrick buddy back.”

“I can't be that person anymore. I lost sight of who that was anyway. Way back. I always wanted to be faithful to myself when I went solo because I felt like I was too scared to be myself and then when I was myself everyone fucking hated it.” Patrick’s nails curled over the edge of the table. He wanted to dig down past the varnished wood, press down until he reached pain; until his nails bled and the wood split and splintered beneath his skin. 

“I didn’t hate it. I could never hate you,” Pete insisted. Patrick shrugged. It was all empty words. There was a river of murky water under their bridge. He didn’t want to go there.

“Fair enough,” Patrick said, looking down at his plate. “I don’t like to think about that time.”

“What? When we were a band?” Pete said, and he frowned. “I don’t think of it like that.”

“Not that band as a whole, just the last part.” Patrick didn’t like to think of it because more often than not, his thoughts would flip around and he’d think of himself and all the mistakes he made in those last few months. If he’d stuck the band out then this wouldn’t have happened. If he quelled the need to be his own person then he wouldn’t have failed in the first place. He wouldn’t have needed to seek out a second occupation to pay for the failure of the first. He’d have been miserable but he wouldn’t have been ruined. 

“We won’t go back to that place again,” Pete was saying, or Patrick was certain Pete was saying it, he couldn’t quite hear over the sound of his own self-loathing. 

 

They got drunk three afternoons later. Through boredom mainly, and because perhaps they both needed the edge taken off. Not much had changed. Pete was still careful; Patrick’s luggage was still in the hallway.

But there was vodka, the real shit, in a paper bag that Pete had bought from the closest liquor store. Patrick didn’t drink vodka, didn’t like the taste, but when Pete poured him one neat, he swallowed it down. It burned, it tasted disgusting. They found better stuff in Patrick’s cupboard, old and potent. They ended up in Patrick’s bedroom, splayed out onto the floor. It made the room stop spinning. Patrick closed his eyes, feeling Pete’s body beside him.

“Did anyone ever hurt you?” Pete asked, half slurred. Patrick didn’t answer for a minute, in part because it took that long for the words to be processed.

“I wasn’t ever raped,” Patrick offered. “Sometimes it hurt though.”

“The thought of you in pain makes me sick,” Pete said, which made Patrick laugh because it was dramatic. And Pete had hurt him. They’d hurt each other all the time, way back when. During the shattered remains of the band that Patrick had left behind.

“I’ve been in pain before,” Patrick said. “I don’t know. Everything got shitty, but the sex made me feel dead sometimes but alive as well. I can’t really explain it. I don’t know how. It was better in the moment but worse afterward.”

“You didn’t do it just for the money. You wanted the pain too.” Pete said softly. “You ever fall in love?”

“It wasn’t like the movies, Pete,” Patrick said, and then kinda wished it was. If selling himself turned out like Pretty Woman then maybe his life wouldn’t have looked quite so tragic right now. “There was one guy that felt different once.” Patrick thought to TipWell and how it had felt that first time, how hard Patrick had come; how desperate he’d been for more. “But it wasn’t love or affection, just the atmosphere, I guess.”

“That is so unbelievably tragic and fucked. I’m sorry, Patrick.” Pete sounded close to tears again, but Patrick didn’t want to deal with that so he just shrugged.

“I think I just wanted to feel something.” They didn’t speak for some time after. Patrick fell into a dreamy sleep, full of voices and sounds but softness too, a little like he was underwater. Like he was drowning, but in a good way. When he woke up, his eyes felt heavy and he rolled over onto his stomach. He was pressing into a warm body. Pete. He knew that, and yet he let his mind drift off again.

“Were you scared the first night?” Pete asked, as Patrick grew back into consciousness again. “Were you scared of what it would be like?”

“Like a virgin on prom night,” Patrick said, as if he had the experience of that. Patrick had already been under the heavy weight of band duties the night of his prom. “I remember what he looks like and what it felt like. I don’t remember the details of many others. It was the only time the character of Lukas felt accurate. He took my whore virginity, I guess.”

“Don’t call yourself that,” Pete slurred under the weight of the vodka in his bloodstream. Patrick laughed. He found it funny that Pete thought it was a slur rather than fact. He laughed and then he closed his eyes again and fell asleep.

When he woke up, Pete was half beneath him. Patrick was beneath a layer of foggy drunkeness, and didn’t understand at first. He was half on Pete, on his bedroom floor. There was something over his shoulder. He touched it and felt Pete’s fingertips. He had his arm over Patrick. 

“This feels nice,” Patrick said and felt Pete’s chest rumble beneath his cheek. “Doesn’t feel normal.”

“Nothing feels normal anymore,” Pete said. Patricks cheek lifted higher as he took in a deep breath. Patrick shuffled around and sat up. The room swung right around and he collapsed his face into his hand.

“I’m going to sleep it off on my bed. You can, if you want... Come too,” Patrick felt bold in his drunken state, like he was asking for something other than a friend to sleep off bad vodka with him in a place that wasn’t his bedroom floor. More cuddling would be nice. Patrick hadn’t been cuddled without bad intentions in forever.

 

Patrick barely even remembered getting into his bed, let alone falling asleep, or whether Pete joined him or not. But the next time he awoke, he was fully in the grasp of a weighty hangover. He sat up and while the room spun a little less than his last foray into consciousness, he felt slightly more alive. Pete was missing though.

Patrick had a shower, to try and clear his mind. It didn’t help much, but it gave him something to do. A gentle brush of his teeth helped. He couldn’t see his reflection in the mirror, it was too foggy and his vision was shitty, but he was secretly glad for it.

He stumbled through his house, fingers brushing the wall, as he searched out Pete. He was in the kitchen, frowning over the coffee machine. When he looked up at Patrick, he gave small smile, his cheeks looked a little red. 

“Was it a bad decision to drink that much shitty vodka?” Patrick asked. He stumbled onto a stool at his breakfast bar and then sighed. “I haven’t drunk that much in forever.”

“It felt a little cathartic,” Pete said. The coffee maker sprung into action and they both jolted. “If I did what you did, I think I’d have been permanently shit-faced just to get through it.”

“You kinda need your inhibitions. Lose them and you’re in trouble,” Patrick said. He looked at Pete, who seemed to be finding it hard to stare at Patrick. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No, not at all,” Pete said. He looked at Patrick, right in the eyes, and rolled a shoulder. “Just my own head and all its sorrow.”

“Did you sleep okay?” Patrick asked instead. Pete was pouring coffee into mugs and nodding his head. On a good day, Pete rarely slept, but Patrick didn’t bring it up. 

“I forgot how much of a cuddler you are,” Pete teased, a few minutes later. They were sitting quietly in Patrick’s kitchen, drinking coffee and trying to fight their equally shitty hangovers. 

“Oh. Did I make things inappropriate?” Patrick asked. He hoped he hadn’t hung all over Pete, hadn’t dribbled on his shirt, or started sleep mumbling anything weird.

“No, it was nice, Patrick. Honestly. It was comfy.”

“Good.” Patrick sipped his coffee and felt his cheeks burn. Honestly, he felt a little like a teenager again. He’d been playing one in the hotel room for months now, but he hadn’t felt it really, until Pete’s comment.

Pete wanted to go for a walk to clear his head later that afternoon. Patrick didn’t want to leave the house, so happily let Pete go alone. He was recovering okay from the hangover. He had food in his stomach and he drank gallons of water. That’s what always helped him in the past.

Alone in his house, he stared at his suitcases in the hallway. Now felt like time. Now he felt brave enough to deal with it. He hefted them up the stairs and pulled them into his bedroom. He didn’t hesitate, because if he did, then maybe he’d falter and end up in the same way as before. No, he unzipped with unpronounced gusto and flipped them open. 

Patrick wasn’t a neat person, but he’d folded his clothes up with care. On top, sat his neat suits, all folded and rolled, to maximize the space. His mom had taught him that tip years back, when he first left for tour as a baby, as a teenager with no life experience. He touched the gray fabric. There were tour clothes in here, mixed among his whore clothes. All mostly suits, all button downs, with the occasional cardigan for comfort. He didn’t wear those when he met men, they were for interviews or days on the tour bus when he wasn’t having to present himself as anyone or anything. 

He pulled the clothes from the bag. All buttons and zippers, so many fasteners. As he touched the outfits, he remembered how it felt, being unbuttoned from the clothes; some liked to undress him. To have him ride them in nothing but his dress shirt. Others liked him to keep everything on, they’d pull his pants down over the curve of his ass and bend him over, take him like that. Faces were blending in his head, but he could smell them in the room. Musky mix of cologne, stubble beneath his fingertips as he kissed them. He could feel them and taste them, even as he struggled to breathe.

“Patrick?” there was a different voice cutting through, Patrick was on his knees now, something tight in his hand that he couldn’t stop gripping, but Pete was rushing into the room, falling onto his knees, hands curling over Patrick’s shoulders. “Patrick, just breathe.”

Patrick did as he was told and found himself feeling a little better for it. He felt like he was having a panic attack, almost. He’d suffered with them before, but not like this, he’d always been more cognitively aware. He’d always known that he was in a room alone gasping for breath. There’d been no visions or old smells before.

Pete’s hands were on his shoulders, one on his face, thumb wiping under his eyes. Patrick was crying. He hadn’t realized that part either. He hated himself for it, for the fact he always seemed to be on the edge of empty despair or tears.

“I don’t know what happened,” Patrick said after a while. “It’s like all the memories got on top of me and I could smell them all. All the men.”

“Sounds like a flashback,” Pete said. His hands were both on Patrick’s shoulders now, and Patrick leaned his head down, to get closer, to get pulled into a tighter hug. Pete folded him in. Lips against his scalp. “It’s alright.”

Pete helped put away the clothes for Patrick, removing them from sight. Maybe it still was too early to deal with it. He wasn’t ready to face the physical aspect of his time on tour. Not yet. He didn’t understand why the fall out had to happen now, why his mental state had to break apart so easy when nothing awful had happened... not really.

“Sorry,” Patrick said, when he felt up to talking again. He was still on his knees beside his bed, but the suitcase had been wheeled away and the clothing hidden from sight. Pete knelt down beside him, held him close and said nothing. They’d never been like this; Patrick had never depended emotionally on Pete prior to this. He wasn’t sure how to deal with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be away next week so no update until the week after, but I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting for this chapter, I hope you enjoy it!

Something felt different that night. They touched differently. Pete sat closer to Patrick on his couch as they watched TV. Their knuckles almost brushed. It felt comfortable. Patrick had wanted this once, but had known it was pretty unattainable. Now he wasn’t so sure.

They grazed knuckles and watched TV and Pete leaned his head against Patrick’s twice. He left once, to read his kid a goodnight story over the phone, but when he came back he threw his arm over the back of the couch. Patrick took that to mean to wiggle closer. He did, and Pete’s arm curled over his.

“Patrick, I’ve been thinking something you’re gonna be pissed about,” Pete said, just as he was starting to settle. He pulled back, to the safety of the couch and stared at Pete, who was suddenly looking everywhere but at Patrick. “Don’t be mad and see the rational side.”

“Just speak.” Whatever it was, Patrick could deal. So long as Pete wouldn’t leave. 

“Youneedtogettested,” Pete said, and even though the words stumbled into one long slur Patrick heard it clear as day. He bit his lip and let the hurt swirl and sink around him. “Just to put it behind you.”

“Get tested for what?” Patrick asked, chasing Pete’s eyes around the room. He hadn’t even felt the anger until it was burning his face up. “What are you fucking implying about me.”

“Jesus, Patrick. I’m implying nothing about you, but the fact is you’ve spent the last few fucking weeks selling your body and even if you were careful every time, isn’t it better to get tested and start over?”

“I just want to put it behind me,” Patrick said. It had felt better before, when they’d been almost cuddling and almost touching hands and Patrick felt like something other than filth. 

“You can. You will, but this will help. I’ll go with you if you like,” Pete said, and Patrick felt his anger fall away, melting into the unquenchable sadness inside. 

“I don’t need you to do that,” Patrick said, sitting down, making sure no part of him touched Pete.

 

Patrick found a clinic that took drop ins a half hour away from his place. Pete offered to go with him again, but Patrick wanted some form of dignity. He knew he needed to do it, so that maybe it would give him closure. Maybe he’d be able to move on and not fuss around with irrational panic attacks. 

He sat in a waiting room with a cap over his head. He had to show photo ID which was horrifying and stopped him from using the Lukas identity, but they didn’t seem to recognize him. If they did, they hid it well.

When he was called to a room with a clinician he felt sick. He refused eye contact, he opened his mouth and they swabbed him and they took his blood, left him alone to pee in a cup, and then gave him spiel about the rapid HIV test coming back today, but they’d be in contact with the rest of his results in the week. They gave him a handful of condoms like he should be grateful. Then, they sat down opposite. 

“I don’t need the condoms,” Patrick said. Because he didn’t. No one would ever want him enough to use them now. And he wasn’t… he couldn’t. He wouldn’t go back to doing what he was doing before. 

“You need them to practice safe sex. You also need to make sure any partners know if your results come back positive.” Her voice was calming and soft, but Patrick didn’t want to look at her. He couldn’t.

“I don’t have any partners,” Patrick said. He hadn’t for nearly two years. “I wouldn’t be able to tell everyone anyway.” He left it open. He figured they thought he’d either been raped or a sex worker. He didn’t want their pity when it wasn’t deserved, so he tried to explain. “I don’t do it anymore. It was only for a few months to help pay the bills.”

“And now?”

“Now I sit in my house afraid of leaving. I don’t know.” Patrick covered his face with his hands. His skin was hot, and he felt sweaty beneath the cap, and possibly like he might have another panic attack. “I don’t know what to do.”

She didn’t touch him or tell him anything other than it will be okay, that coming today was a sign of improvement, but that it was likely he was dealing with PTSD. He wouldn’t have come if Pete hadn’t told him, but he nodded, and pretty much agreed with her assessment. He pulled his hands from his face and felt dizzy for it, but this was the lowest, right? There wasn’t much lower than sitting in a drop-in clinic, pissing in a cup and getting tested for a pick’n’mix of STI’s.

He sat in his car afterward in the parking lot. He didn’t have HIV, or the rapid testing hadn’t shown it. That was a relief, but he didn’t want to go back home, not when he felt so broken. Pete would be there and he’d be asking questions and looking at Patrick half like he wanted him, half like he wanted to fix him.

His phone stared to buzz in his pocket and Patrick jumped before fishing it out. Joe’s name and face popped up on the screen. It was an old photo of them, Joe with too much hair, Patrick with rounder cheeks. He smiled at the memory before answering. 

“You know what I just discovered? Whiskey scented candles. They were so gross, but they reminded me of you so before I forget. You want some?” Patrick laughed at Joe’s dumb but thoughtful comment. 

“They sound amazing. Where are you?” Patrick’s hands were shaking, and his voice too but he hoped Joe wouldn’t notice. 

“Wedding shopping,” Joe said. “Not as fun as it sounds, let me tell ya. How you doing, dude?”

“I’m okay,” Patrick said, lying to his friend while he sat outside a sexual health clinic. “Sort of.”

“You’re not okay.” Joe’s voice changed, the humor leaving it. They got each other like no one else. It was different to his relationship with Pete. It wasn’t antagonistic or angry, it was just them, the two of them, never fighting, just maintaining an easy-going friendship. Patrick wouldn’t ever tell him what he’d done. Joe would lose it. 

“I’m not but I’m getting better,” Patrick said. He was, right? There’d been some form of improving in that he physically wasn’t selling himself anymore. “Pete’s been staying with me. We’re healing our friendship, I think.”

“Well that’s good. When he’s gone fly out, okay? Come stay with us. I’ll take you out to dinner every night and buy you vinyl,” Joe promised. He was like Patrick’s ideal boyfriend, if he was being honest. If Patrick was at all attracted to him like that. His favorite platonic friend for when he needed cheering up.

“I’m having a hard time leaving my house at the moment, but I will.”

“We can reminisce about being eighteen and badly behaved,” Joe teased, knowing not to focus on the sadness in Patrick’s voice. Patrick would do the same for him in a heartbeat.

“I was never as bad as you,” Patrick laughed. He felt better for talking to Joe. That’s the effect he had on Patrick. “I’m sorry I ruined our career in the band.”

“Dude, you didn’t ruin anything, you were just the only one brave enough to call it quits. I’m in a way better place now. I think we all are,” Joe said. Patrick thought to himself about what a terrible state he was currently in. This was way worse than the burgeoning break up of his band.

“I’d like to see you,” Patrick admitted. He’d feel better for it. He might cry, but he wouldn’t tell Joe why. “Buy me some of those candles and I’ll come pick them up soon.”

 

Talking to Joe had helped Patrick take a step away from how he’d felt leaving the clinic. Pete was sitting in Patrick’s back yard, reading a book, but he closed it immediately and stood up as Patrick approached.

“I’m probably not diseased. I’ll get the results in a week,” Patrick said, breaking the ice. “They gave me free condoms, but I didn’t want them. They made me feel worse.”

“I think that’s just standard,” Pete said. He grabbed Patrick’s hand and squeezed it. “You doing alright?”

“Never anymore,” Patrick shrugged. He felt Pete’s thumb rollover his knuckles and smiled at the affection. “I spoke to Joe on the phone. I think when I’m ready I’m going to go and hang out with him." 

“Oh, that’s good.” Pete’s eyebrows raised. He sat down on the bench and pulled Patrick down with him. He put his arm over Patrick’s shoulder, reining him in close. It was a lot of touching, it reminded Patrick of being pulled and pushed in the hotel rooms. But it smelt like Pete, Pete’s cologne and his rough stubble against Patrick’s forehead. It was no one but Pete.

“I didn’t tell him about me. I wouldn’t want him to know,” Patrick said. “I still don’t like that you know.” Pete laughed at Patrick’s comment, like it was obvious to him. They sat in silence for a while. They were cuddling and neither one of them was crying. Patrick was painfully aware of it.

“I have to go back to LA tomorrow,” Pete mumbled in Patrick’s ear, just as Patrick had started to drift off. He froze and frowned and tried not to let his disappointment show. “I need to see my son and Ashlee has paperwork for me to see. Something about custody.”

“Oh, well. You should definitely go back,” Patrick said, he pulled his head away from where he’d been curled against Pete’s neck. His hand was on Pete’s chest, too intimate to be a simply friendly grasp but he couldn’t move it. 

“You could come with me?” Pete offered but Patrick shook his head. He couldn’t be in LA with the never ending sun and the exposure and the fame. He needed Chicago still, and Joe afterward.

“I can’t leave here. I can’t leave my house,” Patrick said, which was also true. 

“We can talk on the phone every day.”

“So, you can check up on me?” Patrick didn’t mean for it to come out so harsh, but he also wasn’t expecting the shrugged shoulders that Pete gave him.

“I’m worried about you,” Pete said. “You’re dealing with serious trauma issues and I don’t know if it’s because of the prostitution or what happened with your record, but you need to recover and I want to help you through it.”

“It’s been good hanging out,” Patrick said, coolly. He removed his hand from Pete’s chest and looked in the opposite direction. “Reconnecting again.”

“It’s been more than that these past few days,” Pete said, and Patrick wasn’t sure whether to pull away or not. Part of him had been worried about Pete bringing it up. “I don’t know what that means for either of us yet, though.”

“It’s complicated,” Patrick agreed, finally looking at him again. He had so many thoughts whirling around. How he’d felt about Pete for years, how he’d used Pete in his mind toward the end of his time on the game. How maybe Pete wasn’t really interested in him at all and maybe it was all just about who Patrick was now and what he’d done.

Patrick had been hoping that Pete would follow him into his bedroom that night, just to sleep, but he didn’t. He pulled Patrick in for a hug, said he cared about him and to sleep well. Patrick felt almost dizzy with confusion. He didn’t sleep well, not with all the thoughts flickering around his head.

Patrick offered to drive Pete to the airport but he said he’d just call a cab, which was fine, but there felt like an electric fence of some sort between them now. Patrick would catch Pete looking at him, but he’d turn away when caught. It worked the other way too.

Still, when the cab pulled up outside, Pete pulled Patrick in close. His hands were on Patrick’s hips and it was romantic. It was possessive. It was how he was touched by dozens of men across the weeks he was whoring himself out, and yet it felt good now. It felt safe. Patrick put his hands on Pete’s shoulders and tried to smile. Pete laughed like it didn’t quite work.

“I’m gonna call you later, Patrick. I’m gonna make sure you’re alright. I’ll see you in a few weeks.” He kissed Patrick’s cheek, which was nice, but when Patrick moved closer, he pulled away. He was looking down, he was doing his full-on concerned Pete face as he grabbed his bag.

“Okay,” Patrick said, struggling to understand anything that was currently happening. He nodded his head, mostly for his own benefit and watched as Pete pulled open his front door. He waved him off, all smiles, wondering where exactly he stood with his friend. His old best friend.

With Pete gone, Patrick didn’t really know what to do. When his friend had been here, he’d dictated everything. _Wanna eat, Patrick? I’m going for a walk, wanna come? Hey, remember that old juice bar we hung out at, let’s go see if it’s still there._ Now there was none of that, just Patrick, and his brain and his thoughts, whirring over and over. 

His mom called him out of the blue and told him to come over. He didn’t want to, but he also didn’t want to sit in his lonely house with no one in it but his own hated head and so he agreed. He got dressed, he combed his hair and he sat in his car for twenty minutes before he drove off. 

He felt better for being there if he was honest. He was a mama’s boy at heart, always had been and she knew when something was up. He couldn’t tell her, but he ate her food and found it wasn’t so hard to look her in the eye. She didn’t ask about music, and he was eternally grateful for that. He couldn’t deal with answering. Of what might actually come up. 

She told him to stay over and he was tempted but he couldn’t, not yet. He went home feeling better for seeing her. 

When he got home, to his empty house, with no suitcase in the hallway, he felt at a loss again. His mom had overfed him, so he couldn’t busy himself with that. Tipwell’s face popped into his mind and he found himself furiously blushing. Not from attraction, but what they’d done. Getting fucked the way he loved, having his ass eaten and pretending it was Pete doing it. How he’d come. Jesus. Patrick moved a hand over his stomach and then jumped when his phone started to ring. 

“Hi Patrick, how you doing?“ Pete said, his voice filling Patrick’s ear as he lifted his phone up. Patrick looked up at his ceiling and frowned. If he closed his eyes it was a little like Pete was still in the room. 

“Okay,” Patrick said, which was neither a lie or the truth. He wasn’t in the pits of despair, he wasn’t super happy either. “I haven’t sold my ass tonight if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No.” Pete hesitated. “I wasn’t asking that, though I’m glad you haven’t.”

“Mom wanted me to go around to her house so I did,” Patrick said, dropping the attitude. “How’s Bronx?”

“Amazing, way too amazing to be my kid.”

“I don’t know about that,” Patrick said, because Pete would always be his soft spot and no matter what anyone said, truth or otherwise, he’d always have his back. 

“Patrick, if I send you some lyrics, you think you could do anything with them?” Pete asked softly. Patrick didn’t answer at first. He hadn’t touched music in forever, by the end of the tour, even singing his own songs had hurt. “I have all these words in my head and I don’t know how to get them to make sense. That was always your job.”

“I guess it was,” Patrick said. Had he ever had much choice? “I don’t know how good at it I am anymore.”

“You don’t have to be good at it, though I still think you are,” Pete said lightly, but Patrick knew all the tones in his voice, and he sounded tense. “This will be just between us, okay?”

“Okay.” Patrick pursed his lips, talked asinine shit with Pete some more and then hung up.

Pete started sending him lyrics over the next few days. Never all in one go and never in a particularly helpful order. Texts and emails came flooding in and Patrick ignored them at first and went back to vigilantly being bored in his house, but slowly he started to think about them.

He’d never been particularly interested in jigsaw puzzles as a kid, and yet he found working with Pete’s lyrics to be like that, finding the bits that worked well, sorting from the outside in. He dug out his software and booted up old ass demos of music, first stuff he had for Fall Out Boy, but that seemed wrong. They weren’t Fall Out Boy anymore, and if they were, they sure as hell wouldn’t sound like that. Patrick would make sure of it. 

So, he did some demos. He couldn’t sing, not just yet, but he wired songs together and he laid down melodies and sometimes he’d send them to Pete like that and sometimes he’d hold onto them for a few days, just to see how he felt about them.

“You’re fucking magic, Patrick,” Pete was saying down the phone a few days later. His voice caught, like he was stuck in some emotion that made it hard to speak. Patrick didn’t get that, why Pete would get like that over basic melodies, but whatever. He shrugged and asked how Bronx was, how Pete was.

“He’s good, I’m good, and you?” that’s how it always went. Sometimes Patrick admitted that he hadn’t been able to look in the mirror that day without wanting to dry heave, other times he generally had been okay. 

“I miss you, actually,” Patrick said, without wanting to get as honest as that. He bit his lip and tapped his fingers awkwardly on his knee. “I dunno. I guess, I liked how we were before you left, you know. We felt close.”

“We got pretty intimate, Patrick,” Pete said. “I think that confused me”

“Why?” Patrick asked, even though he knew. 

“You’ve always been a no-go zone to me,” Pete admitted, and it stung, more than Patrick would have liked it to. When Patrick didn’t answer, Pete started to mutter an apology. “I don’t mean because I’m not attracted to you. Obviously, there’s always been this undercurrent between us, but that was not something to go near in the past, you agree right?”

“I do,” Patrick admitted. At times, they’d barely been able to maintain a friendship, let alone anything else. 

“Now is not the time for us to figure out we want each other like that. Not in this situation.”

“Why not?” Patrick asked. “Because I fuck for money.”

“You don’t do that anymore,” Pete sighed. “But that’s exactly why. You are so fucking screwed up right now, that us having a relationship like that is only going to make things worse.”

“You don’t know that,” Patrick said. He paused and then bit his lip. “I thought about you sometimes. When I was working. Made it easier. Made me come better.” There was silence on the other line. Patrick couldn’t deal. He hung up.


	6. Chapter 6

He got a text from Pete around midnight. _Only say my name (It will be held against you)_

What Patrick was supposed to do with that information other than feel a sickening embarrassment, he didn’t know. He wished he’d just kept his stupid mouth shut. He’d said Pete’s name over and over during his time with TipWell. He’d said it and he’d come so hard that his knees had felt like jelly and then he’d been forced out to a party, presented at a party with a fake dick in his ass, bumping into Pete. Getting in contact. Hugging. Hadn’t his behavior at the party been the reason Pete’s concern for him had spiked? Why he’d contacted Michael and Patrick’s agency and shown up at the hotel. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Patrick awoke three days later to another text. They hadn’t spoken on the phone since Patrick’s confession. _Gonna make your heartbeat in reverse._ Patrick put his fingers to his cheeks and felt the burn of his skin. He’d prostituted himself, he’d been in the music industry since he was a kid. He shouldn’t have been affected by the words, but Pete saying them at him, to him, made a flicker of excitement burn inside.

“What are you doing?” Patrick said that afternoon, when he couldn’t deal with it anymore. He’d called Pete’s number, and was relieved when he picked up on the third ring. "I thought you weren’t interested.”

“I never said that. I said I wasn’t ready to fuck you up more, then you blindsided me with your dirty talk and then you hung up.” Patrick didn’t say anything for a moment, partly because he could hardly believe that Pete thought that was Patrick’s attempts at dirty talk. Patrick couldn’t do dirty talk, not unless he was paid for his company.

“That wasn’t dirty talk, I was being honest,” he said eventually, trying to even out his tone, but he couldn’t quite keep the desperation from his voice.

“Why me?” Pete asked with a self-conscious laugh. “No offense man, but you could’ve picked any dude to think about. Why me?” 

“Because you wouldn’t hurt me.” Patrick almost felt like a carved open wound, showing off his thoughts and feelings to Pete, for him to assess and judge whether he liked it enough to continue. 

“You said no one ever hurt you.”

“I said no one ever raped me,” Patrick corrected. “It’s just… I never had one-night stands, you know? That never interested me. I like intimacy and kindness. It was nice to think that I was doing it with someone that cared. It was a way to survive.”

“Jesus Patrick. Fuck.” Pete sighed, and Patrick wanted to hang up and cry, but he was trying to be brave. His slippery and shaking fingers curled around his phone, as he hunched over on his couch.

“That’s my truth,” he said. “Can you please tell me what you want? You laugh it off on the phone, but then text me stuff that says different. Like when you were here. You’d touch me until I did anything back.”

“We have to take it slow.” Pete’s voice was slow. Patrick wished he was here in person, so he could attempt to look him in the eye and see what he was thinking rather than working it out by tone alone. “For the sake of our friendship, for your mental health and mine too.”

“I understand,” Patrick said. He wished his voice didn’t sound so thin, that he didn’t sound so desperate, but he tried to shrug it off.

“If you fly out here, or I come to you, we need to sit down and discuss what we want. How you want to go about things. Open up our communication. It might not work, Patrick. Us, as a thing. As a relationship.” 

“You sound like a grown up,” Patrick laughed. He felt everything in his body soften. “Can you come out here?”

“For a few days, yeah. I’ll go book a flight.”

 

Patrick rattled around his house with jumbled, vibrating anxiety those next few days. Excitement to see Pete, who wasn’t coming to look after him, or punch him, or do anything but possibly work on their relationship. If they were to speak about things they’d always put off, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it would work.

Patrick didn’t know what to wear, what to make himself look like. Pete knew him; Pete had seen him naked; worse, Pete had seen him in the shots that the agency had of him. The photos of Lukas. There would always be a lingering sense of unease surrounding that. There’d always be this burning embarrassment over how easy Pete managed to get him, but Patrick was trying to push that down. He might have Pete, as a friend, as a lover. That would be better than anything. 

When Pete did show up, with his bag flung over his shoulder and a cap low over his eyes, Patrick did nothing but hesitate awkwardly in his hallway for a few moments. Staring at his friend. He recalled the texts, the songs they’d been writing back and forward over the past few weeks and the conversations nearly every night.

“Can we go out to a bar tonight?” Pete asked, when Patrick couldn’t bring himself to even say hello. He nodded his head slowly and tried to smile. “Good. You don’t leave this place much anymore, do you.”

“I try,” Patrick started. “I needed to go to ground for a while. After everything.”

“I get that.” Pete smiled uneasily. “I’m gonna go wash up, alright?”

Patrick could actually feel his body shaking slightly as he sat in his living room waiting for Pete to come down. He was wearing a casual button down, a cardigan over the top. He kept unfolding the buttons through the loops and then redoing them again. He didn’t want to screw this up. He didn’t want Pete to change his mind.

When Pete came down he seemed a little more relaxed. He’d never been a huge fan of flying, no matter how often they did it over the years. He looked over at Patrick and smiled and patted his wallet stuffed into the pocket of his jeans.

Patrick stood up and started to speak. “I don’t know what bars are around here, but we can head into the city.”

“I’d like that,” Pete said and smiled.

They got on a train, like the old days, like they would have years back, before the torpedo of life happened. They swapped trains, getting on the line to take them to a bar that Pete knew and liked. Their knuckles bumped, from their fingers wrapped tight around the same pole. Patrick looked at Pete and smiled.

“We gonna talk when we’re drunk?” he asked softly, laughing when Pete did, nodding his head.

“It’s a little awkward right now,” Pete agreed. “Booze loosens everything up, right?”

It wasn’t a trendy bar, thank God, but Patrick still wasn’t comfortable either. He was on edge in the city; in the nightlife, wondering whether his new clean existence might merge with those brief months of sin, whether a client would recognize him. He’d live with that forever, he figured.

Patrick didn’t know what he wanted. It was cocktail night, which was weird, and Pete seemed to know all the mixes best. They shared a drink at first, knuckles brushing again, before Patrick decided on something dumb, blue and exotic. He wanted something different to normal. Something silly.

“You ever think we’d share space, a drink and everything else in a small corner of a bar in the middle of downtown chi-town?” Pete teased. The music was a little loud, too much bass. Patrick wanted to tell them to mix it better, but figured that was the wrong thing to say when he was supposed to be on a date with his former best friend. 

“Not really, I guess,” Patrick said eventually. “This drink tastes weird.”

“You’ll be pissing that color out in six hours time,” Pete said, looking into the half-finished drink in Patrick’s hand. “You look good tonight. I don’t think I’ve ever told you that before. Not really.”

“Only as a joke,” Patrick said. There were probably words on stage at one point or another, about Patrick fat and uncomfortable, looking totally bangable. Patrick pushed the thoughts away and laughed. “You look good too I guess.”

“Man, this is fucking weird.” Pete shook his head. “I know you, dude. It’s weird. What are we doing.” Pete swallowed his drink down and then pulled on Patrick’s wrist. They left, they went to a sports bar and drank beer, and that was more like it. Patrick felt his head getting lighter, felt the conversation flow better. At one point Pete had his arm over him, and Patrick could feel his heart beat and they didn’t feel like old friends at all. He didn’t feel much like himself either, not the Patrick of before, or the recovering sex worker.

They kissed on the train home. It wasn’t strange because Patrick was too drunk to get into his head, but he was flat against the door and Pete’s tongue was in his mouth and Patrick was good at getting kissed. He could show Pete, when they were back at his house, he could show him how good he was in bed, how much of an amazing fuck he could be.

“You kiss like a whore,” Pete laughed against Patrick’s nubile lips. There was something sharp in his words that hurt a little. It was a joke and Pete was wasted, so Patrick didn’t say anything but laugh back. He nodded. He did kiss like one, because he’d been one once. Barely a month before.

They stumbled up Patrick’s lawn to his front door with bruised lips and too much blood pumping around their heads. Patrick was holding tight to Pete’s hand, as he centered his key in the lock and twisted the door open.

They kissed some more, Patrick’s hands over Pete’s jaw, tongue in his mouth. Man, he was kissing Pete Wentz. He was kissing him like he’d kinda wanted to all those years back and now he was and he’d probably have sex with him too and—

“We gotta stop. Wait, Patrick,” Pete was saying, pulling away. His lips were bruised, and his voice was coming out in puffs between deep breaths.

“Why?” Patrick was saying. He was thinking about dick now. He hadn’t been fucked since his last paid session. Was that the threesome? He couldn’t recall, but it felt forever ago. He’d let Pete fuck him bareback, God, he would want that, to make it as dirty as possible. Patrick could show him a good time, show him how good it was with a real dirty whore. The irony was that Pete probably had fucked a prostitute or two in his time. Bet they didn’t get paid like Patrick did though.

“You’re not with me anymore,” Pete said, as Patrick faded back into the conversation. “We're supposed to be taking this slow. You’re not ready.”

“Don’t you want your dick inside me?” Patrick teased. He’d said that before to someone. Someone that wanted Patrick to tease; that wanted Patrick to call them daddy. Would Pete want that? 

“Yeah, I do, but you’re not Patrick right now and we’re both drunk and we need to calm down.” Pete rubbed a hand over his own face. “I’m gonna jerk off, okay? I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

It had to be one of _those_ drunken nights where Patrick remembered everything. He lay in bed the next morning, bladder full of blue cocktail, remembering how Pete had straight up rejected him. He didn’t want to fuck Patrick because _you’re not Patrick._ Well fuck you, Patrick thought. He pursed his lips. He knew the reason. He understood it but still. Fuck Pete for leading him on. He hoped jerking off worked out terrible for him.

Pete possibly was ignoring him that morning, staying in Patrick’s one solitary guest bedroom for hours until he finally showed his face. Patrick was going to be the bigger person. He didn’t want to fight, mostly he just wanted to understand.

“Can you explain what happened?” Patrick asked, as Pete sat beside him on his couch. It was easy to sink closer, like their bodies just fit. Pete didn’t fight it. “I don’t really get it.”

“We shouldn’t have been kissing like that anyway. I mean, I’m glad we did, and I wanted it, God I wanted it, wanted you, but it is too soon after what you’ve been through. It’s why I didn’t… why I was wary about coming here.”

“What I’ve been through?” Patrick flushed again. “I chose to do what I did. No one forced me.”

“I’m not arguing semantics right now,” Pete insisted. Patrick felt his body taut against his own. “You went cold after a while, like you were going through the motions.”

“You said I kissed like a whore,” Patrick said back, which hadn’t been a thing he’d thought about until the moment it left his lips. He felt his cheeks burn as he said it. “So, I can kiss like one but not too much.”

“I’m not gonna continue this conversation if you’re gonna act like a douche,” Pete said, which was so ironic considering the years upon years that he’d acted like a douche for Patrick’s benefit. 

“I’m not being a douche,” Patrick said after a while. “I just don’t know what you want.”

“I want you, I want you, I want all versions of you, but not Lukas the escort. You can’t deny you flipped,” Pete said, suddenly gentle. He touched Patrick’s hand, turning it over until their fingers looped. “Something changed.”

“I dunno how I’d even have sex like I did before,” Patrick said eventually. He hadn’t thought about sex in forever, not in the way it used to be, with the thoughts that he might never have it like that again. Sex was something he did to please other people. The rare times he got off were just bonuses. “I just want to please you and make it good.”

“Yeah, I’m good just chilling for a while, alright?” Pete said. “Like high school sweethearts that haven’t gone all the way yet.”

“Too scared to take me to second base?” Patrick said, feeling the relief flood through his own veins. He’d wanted it with Pete, until he realized what that might mean mentally. “We can make out though, right? So long as I don’t kiss like a whore again?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Pete winced. “I should’ve used more than tact.”

“It’s okay,” Patrick laughed. “Let’s just not talk about it, right.”

They didn’t talk about it again, they didn’t talk about much for the rest of the day. Patrick’s ego was still a little bruised and Pete was feeling awkward, Patrick could sense it. They stuck to safer topics like Joe getting married and memories of Bronx that Patrick missed out on.

“I’m sorry I’ve not been around,” Patrick said, with a shrug over the last conversation about the first time Bronx heard Fall Out Boy on the radio. “I should’ve made myself more available.”

“Don’t do that, Patrick,” Pete said. “You needed to be your own person. You needed to be Patrick without Pete. Or the band.”

“I hope one day I can look back on my solo stuff and not find it hidden behind the shit I did to keep it funded. It was empowering writing it, and it was exciting to start with. I just tell myself that. Maybe one day I’ll be able to feel different about it.”

It did feel like they were constantly dancing around things and they were kind of together, in that they held hands sometimes and sat closer than normal on Patrick’s couch. They didn’t even kiss much, because Pete would always pull away just as things started to get intense. Patrick still heard the _you kiss like a whore_ whirring around his head, adding to the shame. He knew Pete didn’t mean it. But still.

The only thing they did do was write songs. Patrick felt like he was sliding nervously back into a comfy chair, one he was used to, but had been so afraid of touching since Soul Punk. But he settled in soon enough, remembering everything that he left behind. He would send Pete demos, quick melodies with the lyrics Pete had sent him over the years hedged in, then Pete would sit beside him and rework the structure. They were silent because they didn’t need to talk. Patrick almost felt soothed by it.

“Have you told anyone about me?” Patrick asked quietly. “About what I do. What I did.”

“That isn’t my story to tell, Patrick,” Pete answered. They’d been working on music, but Patrick had paused and was staring across the room.

“No one can ever know,” Patrick affirmed, nodding his head. “I don’t even like that you know.”

Pete laughed. “Why? If it wasn’t for me knowing, you’d still be out there, getting hurt, getting deeper into it. Plus, we reconnected. That’s good.”

“We could have had this before, you know?” Patrick said because he was in a bad mood now, because of his own shitty decisions. “You could have had me before all those men and then you wouldn’t have an issue touching me.”

Pete sighed, as if he’d come home from work after a really tiring day. Patrick almost felt guilty. “The issue isn’t touching you, it’s touching you and having you think I’m one of your clients. Can you even deal with intimacy right now? Seriously.”

“I want you,” Patrick said plainly. He wasn’t embarrassed by his feelings for Pete, just the reaction surrounding them.

“Yeah, I don’t think that comes into it. We can talk circles around it, but I don’t want our first time together to feel like a transaction and I still don’t think you’re ready. We’re barely back to being friends, and I know this is what we both sorta wanted for a long while, but that doesn’t mean we need to jump back into it.”

“When did you become the sensible one,” Patrick said, and he agreed sometimes, at that moment, when his head felt rational and the crippled self-esteem was on the back burner.

“I could make a really distasteful joke on your behalf right now, but I’m not gonna so I’m just gonna say being a dad helped rationalize things.”

“What distasteful joke?” Patrick asked, but Pete just shook his head with a half smile.

“Work it out for yourself, Pattycakes.” Pete ruffled Patrick’s hair and then stood up, whistling his way out of the room. 

They wrote some more songs, but Patrick felt weird about it, about writing songs and wanting to sing them. The thought of performing again paralyzed him. He didn’t want to do it, to stand up there and have more booing and have more cash flow problems. Then he’d end up where he was before. Selling his ass to cover funds. It made him sick. It made panic bubble in his chest. 

“I don’t think I'll ever be able to perform again,” Patrick confessed softly to Pete. They’d gone out to a restaurant. Pete was holding his hand beneath the table as they waited for their food. “It’s fucking distressing.”

“Why not?” Pete frowned. “Because of what happened when you went solo?”

Patrick nodded, squeezing Pete’s hand tight beneath the table. “We were getting shit thrown at us before we quit and that continued, obviously. And what I had to do afterward.”

“You didn’t have to do what you did,” Pete said. He dropped Patrick’s hand and leaned his elbows onto the table and looked Patrick in the eye. “And I would be there. I wouldn’t let you fall this time.”

“What about before?” Patrick said, because he’d been stung over how Pete had dropped his hand beneath the table. They hadn’t spoken about it before, it was something to step politely over. Like a sleeping lion they didn’t want to disturb.

Pete looked at Patrick and sighed again, like he seemed to do so often. “You really wanna do this now?”

“Not really,” Patrick admitted, noticing the waiter strolling over to their table with their food. “We have to at some point.”

“Later,” Pete said to Patrick, and then smiled as the waiter dropped their food down in front of them. “We’ll fall back to the past later.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this guys, hope you enjoy this next part (we are getting near the end now) :-)

They didn’t talk about it again that night. They stuck to commentary on safe things, which was nearly always Bronx, or Patrick’s mom, or even Andy. Anything but them. Then they left and on the drive home, Pete rested his hand on Patrick’s knee and said he looked good tonight. Was that code? Patrick was no good. He could only pick up on whether people wanted to fuck him now and Pete had made it clear that he didn’t want that.

“We need booze and we need something lowkey playing,” Pete said, when they made it back to Patrick’s little house. Patrick nodded and went looking for music. He could do easy listening, he had enough of everything. Pete came back into the living room when Patrick had chosen the music, with an unopened bottle of whiskey. Patrick remembered it, it came from a nervous client, who’d never been with an escort before. He bought the whiskey as a goodwill gesture before Patrick climbed on his lap and called him daddy. 

He didn’t tell Pete that, but just said he’d go and get some glasses. He felt nervous, his hands felt itchy. He grabbed two glasses and took deep gulping breaths, filling his lungs and letting the air finally drag out. He walked back into the living room where Pete was studying the label.

“This is fancy ass whiskey.”

“It was a gift,” Patrick said, not revealing who from. Some things he’d always want to keep private. “I’m sorry that you felt like I ruined the band all those years ago. I’m sorry.”

“Okay, we’re jumping in at the deep end,” Pete laughed, but it was high pitched and stung with nerves. He took a large gulp of his drink and then hissed as it burned. “I used to blame you for wanting out when it was the only thing I had going.”

“You had a wife and a kid,” Patrick pointed out, but Pete shrugged. “You had it all. Way more than the rest of us.”

“I’m not wired to understand shit like that. Let me finish, Patrick.” Pete waited for Patrick to nod before continuing. “I guess I figured we were the only thing that made up the idea of the band, you know. We wrote the music and played the music and that was it, but in the end I guess it was more like a cake or a cauldron that we all dumped our bullshit into. I dumped too much bullshit, depended on it too much and you wanted to move onto something new. And I didn’t take that well.”

“It wasn’t like that for me. It felt more like a pressure cooker and I only wanted it to be about music. That’s all I cared about,” Patrick said. His best moments in the band always felt like private ones; ones that no one would ever capture on camera. He was grateful for that.

“It kinda felt like you hated me by the end,” Pete said quietly. Patrick tried looking at him, but Pete was digging is own self-pity, and staring down at his knees. He’d always been good at that.

“I remember summer ’04, driving in the van. I remember how our elbows would touch when we sat side by side and I liked that. I liked the way you looked with the red in your hair and the way the heat in the summer made me feel light headed because I never drank enough. If I shut my eyes I can still picture it. Flat lemonade, and crosses on my hand because I was underage and the way you would laugh about it. You were in a bad place and I was ripe for experimenting and you felt it too, but nothing happened but I think about that summer a lot. Or I used to back when I could think about things.”

“It’s nothing but a good thing that we didn’t experiment together,” Pete admitted. “Patrick, I was fucked up. I hurt everyone in sight. It’s a good job I stayed the fuck away.”

“I know,” Patrick shrugged. “It wouldn’t have worked. I can understand that and explain how I felt.” There was an edge to him now, where he wanted to defend and explain himself without complicating things. “I was there for every fall out. You made me a part of that side of your life.”

“I don’t wanna say sorry even though I should,” Pete shrugged. “I never let myself think about you too hard. Just snapshots over the years. Figured the worst thing that would ever happen to you would be me. Didn’t think I’d be wrong.”

Patrick was silent after that. He took it the wrong way. He tried to rationalize but he couldn’t. So he stared down at his knees, at the glass in his hand and figured he’d monumentally fucked everything that he ever had going for him. 

“You took that the wrong way,” Pete said, reiterating Patrick’s thought, but still. He felt like shit.

“I wish you never knew about this,” Patrick said softly. “If you didn’t know things would be easier.”

“If I didn’t know, you’d still be doing it. Think about that, Patrick,” Pete answered quietly. Patrick looked up but Pete was looking in the opposite direction, pouring his drink into his mouth. 

“You can’t even look at me right now,” Patrick said. “I don’t know why you say you want more if you don’t really.”

“I do, asshole,” Pete said. He put the glass on the table and then grabbed Patrick’s head roughly between his hands. His thumbs were pushing just below Patrick’s eyes, almost making him dizzy. “I don’t know how to be careful in relationships that’s what I’m so fucking scared of. You need careful. I don’t know how to do that.”

“I’m not gonna break,” Patrick said. “I know what I want.” He put his hands on Pete’s wrists, to try and relieve the pressure. Pete caught himself, realized that he was almost hurting Patrick, and finally relented.

“Can you respond normally? You didn’t when we kissed that time. You changed. I don’t know. I think we have to take it unbelievably fucking slow for both our sakes, alright? Just be friends that, like, cuddle.”

“But that’s boring,” Patrick said. It wouldn’t be enough for Pete, and it wouldn’t calm Patrick’s desperate desire to want to be loved, either. “That’s not what either of us want. You’ve never done slow, it won’t work.”

“You need therapy for real,” Pete said instead. Patrick looked at him, then away. Hadn’t they had this conversation? Patrick didn’t want to explain it to someone else. He just wanted to draw a line.

“Why won't you just let me move past it.”

“It was barely a month ago. You’re not past it. You have fucking panic attacks, you just need time. I don’t know how to fix you and I don’t want to make it worse. That’s all I’m ever saying, when I say more I just upset you further.”

“So maybe we should stop talking, then,” Patrick said, then looked away. This reflection into the past had taken a shitty turn and Patrick was feeling worse off for it. He gripped the glass of whiskey tight in his hand and then drained it. It burned, but he didn’t care. He liked the pain. 

Pete was there beside him for a few more minutes but then he left. Patrick heard the front door close. Patrick felt bad briefly, because he always wanted to be the good one, the one that never caused any issues or drama, but it was getting harder for him. At first it had felt good having Pete here, but now he wasn’t so sure.

Patrick was alone and drunk in his own house, thinking about the past. Pete wouldn’t want him, he told himself. It was stupid that he’d even got his hopes up. He’d rejected Patrick, because Patrick was so completely fucked up, and Patrick fucked for money and that wasn’t the Patrick he knew anyway. He wasn’t the one he’d been. The one in ’04 that had wanted Pete, but who he’d resisted.

Patrick stumbled from his lonely living room and laid in his darkened bedroom. When he closed his eyes he could see the way he’d been a month before. At least he’d felt slightly more alive. He slept like a zombie, deep but unrested, when he woke up it took him a few moments to realize that Pete was beside him.

“Oh,” Patrick said, softly. “I thought we were fighting.”

“We’re always fighting,” Pete responded, but he smiled and Patrick laughed back. “S’what we’ve always done. Makes it feel more normal.”

“I guess.” Patrick blinked up at the ceiling and sighed. “I think maybe I should go visit Joe for a while. I don’t know. Maybe we need to be together without being together, maybe I’ll feel better. I think my self-esteem is at an all time low.”

“You got yourself some clarity,” Pete whispered and Patrick didn’t know whether that was a compliment or not. “I want you Patrick, but we can’t do it like this. You know that. This isn’t working.”

“I know,” Patrick said, because he was slightly hungover and the nagging self-conscious, self-hatred brain fog hadn’t warped his sensibility just yet. Give it an hour. 

When Pete left for LA again, it was without a hug or a kiss. They’d agreed to put their feelings on hold until Patrick was ready. But he just wanted to go back a few weeks, to when he hadn’t said anything to Pete about his feelings. So there’d been nothing to screw up. But a hug would have been nice. More than just an awkward goodbye.

Patrick could feel the creeping loneliness and self hatred trying to smother him as he sat in his sad little house, waiting for something to change for him. He tried to distract it by booking a plane ticket. Just to New York, to visit Joe and Marie the nearly newlyweds. They were good friends of his, they were excited when he said he was coming.

Patrick packed a bag and called a cab. He folded clothes into one of the suitcases he’d had when he’d toured. He felt dizzy for a few seconds, as he opened it, but he took some deep breathes, he wiped at his brow and he folded some clothes in.

Flying didn’t bother him, like it did Pete. He just pressed ear buds into his ears, closed his eyes, and didn’t open them until they were descending into JFK. Patrick licked his lips. The last time he’d been in New York he’d been touring. He’d been working overtime. Doing what he was now good at. Lukas. 

He was supposed to be heading straight to Joe’s house, but he texted his friend and said he’d been held up, he’d see him later. Patrick was acting a fool. He booked into a hotel room and showered. His hands were shaking. He thought of lovely sweet Pete, his flawed friend that wanted more with him, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. That was Patrick’s fault. If he’d have been a good boy and not done what he had, maybe it would be different.

Patrick looked at his reflection once he’d wiped the fogged up bathroom mirror. He didn’t like to look, he didn’t like what he saw, but some people did now. If he changed his hair and made the clothes tighter, made his expression wide... Lukas the college student. He was liked. He was liked on his back, or on his knees, but he was liked, and he knew what to do.

Patrick made the decision all by himself. Because he could do this. He was good at this. He was good at being Lukas and had forgotten how to be Patrick, good sweet Patrick that Pete almost loved. Patrick was shaking, trying to stop his brain muddling his thoughts. He should be at Joe’s house, he should be talking with his friends and not here, in a hotel room contemplating falling back to what he was supposed to be healing from. 

_Miss you and miss chicago already._ Pete had text when Patrick sat on his bed and stared at his phone. He missed Pete too, missed that when he was around, he had someone to occupy his thoughts and tell him what to do. Hooking up was probably a mistake. Patrick mostly understood that, even if he wanted it. 

Patrick could confess his plan to Pete right now and stop things. He could say _hey, im in a dark place again. Thinking about doing what i shouldn’t._ He didn’t because he didn’t want to be a burden. He wasn’t like Pete, who always needed someone around to catch him, or sort his shit out. He just... he needed to fix himself, or find himself, or just ruin himself some more because putting himself back together wasn't working out too great. He sent a simple _Miss you too_ and then tossed his phone to the bed.

You didn’t need to go to a gay bar to find a would-be client, not Patrick’s type anyway. It was true that he’d always arranged men via his agency, where they were checked out and meetings already arranged, but Patrick knew what to do.

When he was in New York, he’d worked out of one hotel with a few clients. It was either a well known secret that rich men hired male escorts there, or simply coincidence. Patrick didn’t believe the latter too much, but it didn’t matter. He put his suit on, shirt buttoned low, hair pushed over. It felt almost calming, getting back into things. He’d lost his head space and footing since he’d stopped. Pete had tried to help him, but Patrick had come away feeling even more lost. He just needed to control his own life and not let anyone else try and sort it out for him.

He was nervous as he made his way to the hotel. It was a good feeling. Getting fucked would be good too, even if it did come at the expense of feeling dirty and used afterward. The money was nothing. He didn’t need it. But, whatever. He didn’t care.

He sat at the hotel bar and ordered wine. A wine glass was more attractive than beer. He was asked for ID and he laughed, flashing it. Then kept his eyes on the people at the bar. There was a man in the corner. Short gray hair, heavy set. He watched Patrick’s hand on the stem of his wine glass. Patrick smiled, legs slightly open on the bar stool. That’s what you do, keep an open body, make it obvious. It took twenty minutes of subtle flirting for the man to approach.

He wanted to buy Patrick a drink. He went for the second most expensive on the menu. It made the man feel expensive, made him show off the ease he was willing to pay. Made it seem like Patrick had expensive taste, that his taste was this man. It was all mind manipulation, but it worked. Patrick laughed when the man sat closer, when his hand touched Patrick’s thigh. It wasn’t Pete, but he wasn’t Patrick right now. He was Lukas. 

He was asked the same question he was always asked. “You look awful young. What’s a pretty boy like you doing out here alone? Let me buy you another drink.” And then, of course, so that they were both aware that nothing in life was actually free. “You’re gonna cost me a lot more than I think.”

“I’ll make it worth it,” Patrick said. There was panic bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest, but the man’s hand squeezed higher on his thigh and he tried to drown the anxiety with the dregs of his wine. He would do this and forget himself for a night. He would do this because he could, because it was his choice and it was the only thing he seemed to understand.


	8. Chapter 8

There was blood in Patrick’s mouth. 

Something had gone wrong. He couldn’t think. He could just taste blood and hear it in his ears. His left eye wouldn’t open either. He tried to breathe through the pain but he wasn’t sure how. He tried to think past the panic but that was confusing him too. Perhaps his survival instinct had kicked in. He’d read about it once, in a book. Maybe at school. A lifetime ago.

But he wasn’t at school. He was in his hotel room. Not the one with the hotel bar with the man, with the wine glass and Patrick’s easy attempts at flirting. They’d gone to the room, Patrick had done what he’d always done. Or Lukas had. The two had conflated in his head, they were hard to tell apart.

They’d gone there and they’d had sex. Doggy style. Classic. On the bed, the man had been quick. He was half cut and mid fifties. That meant the same every time. Patrick had taken it, still clothed and then?

And then something changed. Patrick and Lukas were not the same and neither wanted to be there. The man had said something. He’d pulled out, he’d turned Patrick and he’d leered over him, half on the bed and Patrick? Patrick had flipped.

There’d been a struggle. Patrick wasn’t sure what part of his brain broke first, but suddenly he was done. He didn’t want to be touched and he didn’t want to be here with this man. He didn’t want to be fucked again, when he’d barely enjoyed it the first time.

Patrick had at least got one fist in, his knuckles were still red, but then he’d been underneath the man and that made him an easy target. He was semi naked, he was being attacked, but Patrick managed to scramble away. There was blood in his mouth. He grabbed the money on the side and then he fled. 

And now he sat in his hotel room, on the fusty carpet, sore, bleeding. He was stupid, he was so stupid and he didn’t want to be alone. He was done with it. He wouldn’t do it again. He grabbed his phone from the night stand. It shook in his hand as he scrolled through the numbers. The last text had been from Pete. Pete who knew everything, but had said the wrong thing at nearly every point. Patrick swallowed. He dialled.

“Hi, Joe,” he said, before his friend could cut in. “Joe, I need you to come and get me.”

Joe came and took Patrick back to his house. Patrick had never considered him in a crisis before, but he was calm and he didn’t ask questions and he didn’t slap Patrick when he must have known... He’d seen the money, and he’d seen Patrick’s bruised face.

“So first things first... Do you need hospital treatment?” Joe asked, when they were back at his place. Patrick knew what he was asking, what he was implying. He shook his head. “We can talk, we can hug, or I can leave you alone. Whatever you want, buddy.”

“Stay,” Patrick said, even though he closed his eyes to his friend’s face.

 

Patrick had planned to stay with Joe anyway. So, when Marie was talking to him happily the next morning he pretended like nothing was wrong. He was supposed to be there. This wasn’t unexpected and yet he knew that she knew something. How could she not? 

“So, Joe says you need something to occupy yourself with,” Marie said, matter of fact. They were having breakfast. Patrick could only see through one eye, but Marie didn’t draw attention to it. 

“Probably,” Patrick tried to say. He chewed the bagel that had been toasted and placed on his plate by Joe, who was now in the shower. “Do you have anything you need me to do?”

“We’ve got a wedding to plan, Patrick,” Marie said sweetly. They’d all been so young when they’d first met that it seemed so strange that Marie and Joe were actually getting married. “You wanna help out?”

“Sure,” Patrick said. He tried to smile, but it hurt.

He was left with a stack of demos to listen to. Musicians that they wanted in the evening. “Strings. Classy shit, you know?” Joe had said brightly before leaving him to it. Patrick listened with headphones to the shortlist. It almost made him want to reach out for an instrument, to seriously play and not just tinker around with Pete. 

He’d had more texts, but Patrick had ignored them. He didn’t know what to say. He was the opposite to Pete. Pete seemed to only want to have the conversations via text and ignore him in person, or pretend everything was okay when it wasn’t or say that Patrick kissed like a whore when he was just trying to forget that part.

So, Patrick ignored the texts and he focused on the bands playing over the headphones. It was all subtle and soft. They were all much better musicians than Patrick would ever hope to be, but he didn’t mind. It focused his poor brain.

That evening, Marie was out with friends and it was just Joe, Patrick, and the whiskey scented candles that Joe had discussed on the phone. They were drinking beer and there was something embarrassingly pop-punk on the sound system.

“Have you and Pete fallen out again?” Joe asked casually. “I thought he was with you.”

“He was, but it wasn’t working out. It... We tried something new, you know.”

“You hooked up?” Joe asked and his tone pitched higher, like he was surprised. 

“It was a stupid mistake. It was the wrong time, and he wouldn’t ever... I don’t think he’d ever really be happy with me.” Patrick stared down at the flickering candles rather than at his friend. It was all too embarrassing really. Admitting what he had and what he’d lost so quickly.

“It shouldn’t always be about Pete’s happiness though,” Joe said. “Look, I love that guy, but I don’t know... He’s not always good at rational shit.”

“I just wanted to be happy.”

“You are allowed to be happy, dumbass,” Joe said, with a soft shove to Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick laughed for a few seconds before sighing and letting it out a little more to Joe.

“It took me a really long time to realize that I was allowed to be happy. I didn’t…I wasn’t for most of our time in the band. I didn’t think I could complain about anything because we’d made it, then I snapped one day, I didn’t want to do things that made me miserable or self conscious or aware that we were a joke. I just wanted to be happy so I left and I was. I was happy for the freedom when I moved back to Chicago. I was happy to not have anyone’s input or design into the songs. I was happy when I recorded, when I found these amazing people that wanted to tour with me, made me feel like I had a real place in the world, then everything shitty that could have happened did. And now I’m here, trying to recover in your guest bedroom.”

“Nah, dude, you’re here to plan my wedding. That’s all.” Joe winked and Patrick laughed. He almost wanted to cry with gratitude, but he kept it together. “You can stay with me and Marie for however long you like, bud. You know that.”

“I know,” Patrick smiled, because he did. “Thank you.”

 

The first week he was there, Patrick hardly went out. He stayed inside with the disgusting candles Joe bought him, and waited for his bruises to heal. They did, and he found himself feeling a little better. Part of him wished that Joe had known sooner, so that he’d never gotten himself into anything worse, but Pete had been right about one thing. He’d have still been escorting if Pete hadn’t shown up that time. Patrick needed to reach his rock bottom himself. 

Then, he started to go out with Joe, just into the city. Boring stuff, like running errands or walking the dog. He even got to eat cake for ideas for the wedding. He was a little like their child they were trying to fix, like he’d dropped out of college and didn’t know where to go next. He needed that. He needed their help.

Pete’s texts stopped coming after a while, though they still casually wrote songs back and forth. Patrick was grateful in a way. He needed Pete out of his head. Just so that he could heal. He’d managed to take Lukas out. He sat in the back of Patrick’s head, coming out at night to replay old events. All those stupid ways in that he’d sold himself. Stupid Patrick. He was trying to forgive himself but it was hard. Lukas would always be a part of himself, but he was history now.

“You think we’d have ever been alright as a band?” Patrick asked one night. They’d been out for dinner as the three of them, but now Marie was in the bath and they were sitting in Joe’s makeshift studio, playing around with old demos. 

“How’d you mean?”

“Guess when I look back everything seemed fucked so early on. I don’t know...once Infinity hit, we just seemed to spiral away from normality.”

“I don’t think that’s different to most band dudes I know. At least we like each other. Do you know any other band where there’s genuine affection?”

Patrick genuinely had to think for thirty seconds before a couple came to mind, but most of them were defunct at this point. 

“Sometimes I wish I knew how Pete felt about me. Like for real.”

“Did you ask? If you were hooking up or whatever...” Joe trailed off, and Patrick sensed the awkwardness. Patrick would feel the same if Joe and Andy got together. It would be weird as fuck.

“We were, but we just argued. We seemed to want the same thing, but then he’d go cold and I got worse.”

“Got worse?”

“More in my head. More out of sync with him. The stuff I was doing before he came back...” Patrick didn’t give it a name to Joe, who had seen the money in the hotel room and the bruises on Patrick and understood the implication. “Will it ever be the right time?”

“Maybe it’s like kids, buddy. You’re not ready, you’re never ready for them, but they just happen and you deal with it,” Joe shrugged. He smiled at Patrick, like he was kind and sweet. “See how it goes.”

“I need to work on myself,” Patrick agreed. “Then work on where Pete fits afterward.”

Patrick stayed with Joe for another month. He went suit shopping with Joe for the wedding, and helped Marie pick out what they needed on the wedding register. Neither of them saw the point, when she and Joe lived together and could afford everything on the list anyway. But they did it all the same. He started to find his way out of his head. He came to see that his depression had led him astray. He’d been depressed before, but not like that. He was trying to see himself through to the other side. To an almost happy state. He was reading self help books to see himself to sleep at night; he was trying to heal what he’d put himself through.

His lack of interaction with Pete was brought to a harsh close one Saturday when Patrick had been flicking through a gossip magazine he found stuffed behind Marie’s favorite armchair and saw a paparazzi photo of Pete with a woman. Thin, beautiful, his general favored type. _Pete and new girl hit the beach!_

Patrick was livid at first, and then he was hurt and then he was just confused by it all. He drank a glass of water and tried to recall the last text he’d received from Pete. It had been last Thursday. He’d written _thanks xxx_ because Patrick had sent him a revised demo of a track they’d been working on. He hadn’t done those kisses before. They’d never been kisses in text kind of guys until they’d almost got together. Until they did get together. They’d kissed, they’d cuddled, they’d almost gone further until Pete’s stupid shitty comment about Patrick’s kissing technique and them needing to wait.

“Congrats on the new girlfriend,” Patrick said down the phone, when he reached for it and dialled Pete’s number. There was a pause on the other side, as Patrick tried to keep his breathing steady. “Would’ve been cool to hear it from you.”

“It didn’t mean to happen, Patrick, and it isn’t serious, but I wasn’t sure where we were with each other. You weren’t responding to the texts I sent.”

“That’s because I’m trying to recover, asshole,” Patrick said. “And I finally am. I’m finally doing better. You should have told me so that I didn’t think we were still... That I didn’t wonder whether this was still something you wanted.”

“This is something I want. You’re something I want, but I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for,” Pete said and it felt like such an entirely shitty thing to say that Patrick could think of nothing to do but hang up.

He tried to anchor his feelings with logic, rather than soaking up the emotion. It was something that Marie had told him to do not long after he’d cemented himself into their guest bedroom. He wrote it down. He was angry because he thought they were simply putting things on the back burner. He was hurt because Pete had moved on when Patrick was barely into the phase of being ready to date. He could have told Pete what had happened that time he left, when Patrick, broken and fucked up, had prostituted himself on a whim and nearly gotten himself raped for the effort. That Joe had been the one to help him back on his feet, because there’d been no unspoken lust or tension between them. The final feeling was a tingling embarrassment that Pete had moved on when Patrick hadn’t. That maybe it hadn’t been as big a thing for him. Maybe Patrick had been just another name on a long list of possible fucks.

“I dunno. I don’t think it’s like that,” Joe said, when Patrick explained everything to him. Honestly, Patrick was going to buy Joe the best wedding gift ever, for having to put him in the situation of hearing all of his incessant whining. “I think he’s just one of those dudes that can’t face being alone. He’s never single. I don’t think he can do that. I don’t think it’s even about his feelings for you. He probably still has them.”

“That makes him pathetic,” Patrick said, waiting for Joe to start laughing before he joined in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go guys, thanks for sticking with this :-)


	9. Chapter 9

Patrick sat in Joe and Marie’s New York townhouse and was miserable for a solid three days. Not miserable enough to go back out again and start escorting to shame his self-loathing into something else, but low enough that he stared at a blank wall for at least 45 minutes at a time. Pete’s dickishness was unintentional, Patrick understood that, but still it hurt. They hadn’t promised themselves to each other, but Pete had laid in a bed next to Patrick and agreed they needed time.

“I think maybe it’s time for me to go home,” Patrick said, another four days later. The wedding was in two months, and Patrick didn’t want to take up anymore of their time. He felt stronger than he had in months and a lot less fucked in the head. Pete had bruised him again, but that was inevitable, he’d told himself. It’s just what Pete did.

Joe was Concerned. He gave Patrick hesitant looks and lots of hugs and told him to call him when he got home. It was like having a mom looking after him again. One that knew what he had done to himself and didn’t berate him for it. 

“Find yourself a nice dude,” Joe said, sitting in the drop off zone of the airport. “Find yourself a nice dude and forget about that thing with Pete. It’s probably for the best.”

“Probably,” Patrick admitted. “I still don’t know if I’m ready for a relationship.”

“When you’re good and ready,” Joe smiled and winked. Patrick just nodded with gratitude.

 

Patrick wasn’t afraid to be back in his little house. It was familiar to him, and he’d had it long before anything had ever gone truly wrong in his life. He had a row of slim cut suits sitting in his closet, the ones he’d picked up to play as Lukas. He grabbed them two hours after he made it home, bagged them and set them out to the trash. He wiped down every surface. He changed the sheets and threw open the windows. He sat in his small backyard and he drank tea and he let the melodies in his mind out, played with them, saw how he could adapt them into real songs.

Patrick slowly became the Patrick he thought he’d be without the band. He became happy in his own company and in his house. He still had moments late at night, when the tears came and Lukas lit up behind his eyes, but then, so did every bad memory. It wasn’t as if life had been perfect until he’d taken on another personality to keep the cash flowing. He was just trying to move past the really awful shit.

He spoke to Joe and Marie most days, usually both of them via text, sometimes Joe would call at night, and sometimes they’d pass music they’d written back and forward. They hadn’t done much of that in the past. Pete owned Patrick musically in the band. He’d never thought of the freedom he’d get from working with Joe. It felt shameful to learn that so late. 

He even contacted his old manager and put out feelers around producing...just locally for the time being. He thought his manager might be pissed.... Patrick had fired him when the money had tightened and he’d taken things into his own hands, but he seemed happy to hear from Patrick again.

And he was doing okay. He was occupying himself, he was in the studio with fresh faces who knew him only as Patrick, and that was awesome. He started to love music again, and play it loudly in the house and even text Pete back occasionally, when he was in the mood. 

Then out of the blue he received a large bouquet of flowers on his front door, which was flattering but awkward because Patrick could barely maintain his dry houseplants. On closer inspection and after sending his mom a photo of them asking her to identify the breed, he discovered they were orchids and you could purchase food for them.

Patrick went to the store and he bought orchid food for his new plants, and pondered, as he queued, on who would have sent him the flowers in the first place. His first thought was Pete, because they were on-off friends that had almost had a relationship a few months back but when had Pete ever sent flowers? And why would he send them to Patrick? The thought was laughable. Cryptic and somewhat sexual lyrics were as romantic as he’d ever got to Patrick. 

Then, naturally, his thoughts turned a little more anxiety inducing. It must be a client. Someone must have figured him out. He wasn’t an anonymous blond twink lost in the city, but a semi famous musician they’d probably seen on tv once. Fat. Embarrassing himself. The self hatred was a part of him. And it was violent. Patrick blinked. He shuffled forward in the queue. He paid for his orchid food and then went home.

He was on edge for a while, trying to think of all the ways he was probably going to get himself in trouble. A crazed stalker that would keep him locked up as some sort of sex slave. Someone that he said the wrong inane thing to during their time in the bedroom. Patrick wasn’t as dead inside as he had been. He’d put up a fight.

He almost jumped from his bones when the phone rang. He picked it up from beside him and answered, just to try and clear the unnerving thought of a stalker. It took a while for the rambling hesitating mumbling to make sense to his ear.

“Oh Michael. Is that you?” his old touring guitarist. The one he’d almost had a thing with, the one that knew but couldn’t stop him. The one that told Pete. “We haven’t spoken in a while.”

“No, I know. I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me after the Pete thing, but I was just calling to see if you got my flowers.” Patrick was honestly so relieved to discover that the flowers weren’t from a stalking ex-client and just his former guitarist that he couldn’t think to be mad. He couldn’t be mad at everyone in life. He was trying to be better.

“Thanks. Why did you send me flowers?”

“I suppose I wanted to apologize for the way I treated you and flowers is what you do, right?”

“I guess. Chances are they won’t survive. Thanks though. You didn’t have to,” Patrick said, slowly trailing off. “I’m not... I’m different to how I was. I’m in a better place now. I don’t... I don’t do that anymore.”

“That’s good.” There was a pause on the line, like Michael wanted to say something else, but couldn’t find the words. Patrick didn’t mind. He just held his phone to his ear and waited. “Are you still in the Chicago area? We could meet up if you’d like.”

“I would like that,” Patrick said. 

 

They met up a few days later at a café near a record store they both enjoyed. Michael was tall and handsome in that slightly boring probably married way. He was divorced, actually, so the married look was all in appearances. Patrick wasn’t sure why he cared, why he was thinking dumb thoughts about that over a coffee.

“I’ve never been able to shake the idea that I let you down on tour. I knew what was happening and I didn’t try and stop it,” Michael said. He looked guilty, his face was turning red. Patrick couldn’t really understand why he wanted to take credit over Patrick’s own mistakes, but he shrugged.

“You wouldn’t have been able to stop me. I needed to stop for myself. Pete tried to get me to stop, but that wasn’t helpful. It needed to be me.”

And you’re not doing it now?”

“No.” Patrick shook his head. “I’m never doing it again. I fucked myself up big time for it. I’m still trying to heal from it, if I’m honest.”

“It’s gonna take a while, I bet, but you have people around you that care,” Michael said. He was sweet. Patrick remembered why he crushed on him. He was a good guy, and he had a big dick. Patrick had walked in on him once. 

They went to the record store together afterward. They shared similar taste, and it was fun trading suggestions with each other. Patrick actually laughed out loud and wasn’t afraid of it. His face was almost aching from how he was smiling.

Patrick hadn’t had a day that fun in forever. Was he getting old? A fun day that consisted of coffee shops and record stores was probably low ranking on most people’s agenda, but still. He went home and he spoke to Joe and Marie about it.

“You do sound happy again,” Joe admitted slowly, when Patrick explained it to them. He hadn’t hired a shrink like Pete said he should, but he did have Joe and Marie and they were just as helpful. “I’m kinda jealous that you didn’t have that much fun when you were here with us.”

“And he sent you flowers,” Marie piped up. “That implies something else.”

“Dudes don’t really send dudes flowers for anything else,” Joe pointed out unhelpfully. “If you’re ready for a relationship you should try it.”

“I’m not sure I am.” Patrick wasn’t ready to take or be in a relationship, he knew that much. “It’s too soon.”

“Are you saying that to punish yourself or do you really mean it though?” Marie asked and Patrick paused, thinking it over.

“I don’t know, guys.”

They spent more time together. Michael started to teach Patrick again, like he had on the beginning of tour. They sat close together in Patrick’s kitchen and went over music theory, over learning to read it. Patrick was doing okay. He thought it was all alright. Michael said he was better than that and it made Patrick go a little pink. Or maybe a lot pink. He didn’t want to admit it.

Michael asked him out to dinner which was inevitable and Patrick had Marie on FaceTime again, just to stop himself freaking out.

“Look,” she said calmly. She was overly made up on the screen and when he questioned it, she said it was a trial run of the wedding make up. “I don’t want to go there Patrick, but I will on this occasion.”

“Okay,” Patrick waited, watching her bright red lips purse before opening.

“You have done a lot more...intricate stuff with guys in recent months, so one date with a man that you know likes you, that you like back, how is that harder than before?”

“I was generally more passive with that stuff,” he said, and laughed. “I just don’t want him to regret it. I can’t get hurt again.”

“Not every man is a Pete, “she teased. “Some men are a Joe. Choose wisely.”

“Yeah, that’s enough of that,” Patrick said. She laughed as he ended the call. He would be a big boy about things, and if he did start to panic, then he’d just take a breath. He’d explain to Michael, who would understand.

They went on a couple of dates. It was nice. It was what Patrick expected it would be with him. He insisted on paying and he stood up when Patrick did, even if he was just going to the restroom. He was romantic, a gentleman. What you were taught to do with chicks and Patrick wasn’t one, but he liked it anyway. He couldn’t shake the thought that his parents would be thrilled about this. That if Patrick had to date a dude, it should be someone like Michael.

“How does it not bother you?” Patrick asked, over wine and something French on his plate. The candles flickered on the table and he felt strange, eating food in a restaurant knowing that he wasn’t required to take his clothes off and bend over afterward. 

“Why doesn’t what bother me?” Michael pressed. They didn’t talk about it, or give it a name, just rode the wave around it. “People do what they can when they’re desperate, when they’re low. That isn’t my place to judge even if I did.”

“Yeah, but it’s not normal.”

Michael just laughed. “I’m pushing forty, Patrick. I don’t expect any of my love interests to be virginal. I have an ex-wife and a kid, we all come with baggage.”

“Well, you probably don’t expect that they’ve been a sex worker either.”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” Michael said. “I promise you that.”

Things got a little deeper one night. They were at Patrick’s house and they were kissing and it was just kissing and that was nice. Patrick kept waiting for Michael’s hands to move lower, or his tongue to delve deeper, or his mouth to move like Pete’s did and call him a whore. But it didn’t. 

“I don’t think about anything else,” Patrick said, when he had his lips back. They were bruised, a little sore when he spoke. He had his hand on Michael’s chest. “I don’t feel like I’m with anyone else. Or, you know. I don’t know.”

“I don’t feel like a customer?” Michael said with a laugh. “Good.”

“Yeah. I shouldn’t have said it,” Patrick admitted. He put a hand to his face and laughed. “I don’t know. I’m good when I don’t think. When we just kiss and I go blank but now I’m rambling.”

“Do you need us to stop?” Michael asked. Patrick wanted to say no, because hey, he was functioning like he used to when he made out with people he was into. He wasn’t the damaged Patrick he’d been, or he was, but he was healing.

“Maybe. I don’t want to push it.” Patrick felt cool and uncomfortable when they parted. He felt like an asshole, when they’d been enjoying it. “The thoughts seep in at night, usually, but I’ve got a grip on them. I’m getting a grip on them. I’m almost better.”

“You need more time?”

“I don’t want to say yes because I’m enjoying myself,” Patrick said with a laugh. Two minutes ago, they were kissing and Patrick was thinking he was getting somewhere good, and now he was, what? “But maybe, yeah. I need to sort myself out before I get with anyone. I’m almost there, but not quite.”

Michael left, but kissed Patrick’s cheek. He was disappointed but so was Patrick, but they parted fine enough. Patrick felt settled with his decision. In his mind he had Michael up on this pedastal. He didn’t feel good enough for him and he wanted to be in a better place. He was better, but not better enough to launch himself into a new relationship.

They still texted and Michael still treated him like he was something awesome. They stopped hanging out as often, but if they did, Patrick would probably jump Michael’s bones and he was trying to be a good boy and get himself fixed up.

 

Joe and Marie’s wedding came around quick. Patrick barely had time to have a brand new suit tailored to fit and book a flight. He had to book a hotel at the last moment, but he was now an expert on hotels. It was mid range. Just a stumbled walk from where the wedding party would be. Patrick could happily walk his drunk ass back without much issue.

But he sat in the airport bar, drinking lemonade because he wanted to be nice and sober before the wedding. He’d been texting both of his friends, to see just how nervous they both were. They just seemed happy.

“Wait, I know you.” Patrick jumped on his stool at the voice. He looked over to his left and saw a man starring at him, smiling. Patrick hesitated and was just about to say he was in a band that was famous once when the guy cut in. “Luke? Lukas?”

Well shit.

“Uh,” Patrick hesitated again and tried not to panic. “No, not anymore.”

“Oh.” The guys face fell. Patrick was quite possibly in the most awkward exchange of his life. He couldn’t even recall the face. He was just a bland middle-aged man. “Right. Well, if you ever change your mind. This is me.” 

Patrick was handed a business card. He didn’t understand the man’s title. An Executive of a business probably. Patrick took it and smiled, even if panic was rushing all around. In is head, down in the pit of his stomach. He watched the man leave and then he finished his lemonade. He survived it. He did okay. 

 

Marie looked beautiful of course, and Joe too. Patrick sat and watched only half crying. He was in his new suit. A light gray. He’d needed a new one, one that wasn’t associated with his past, in Patrick or Lukas form. He felt good in it. Like a brand new Patrick. He was ready. 

Pete was there. Alone. He hadn’t even brought Bronx along, or the new girlfriend which Patrick found all kinds of surprising. They didn’t speak at first. Patrick spent time with Andy instead and his new bulked out self. He looked handsome with his hair cut, although Patrick was also living with a head full of champagne bubbles so that could have been it too.

Eventually, at the party in the evening with more alcohol in his system, Pete approached. Patrick was by himself, against a wall. Pete was in a black suit, he was looking sheepish, or maybe that was just his smile.

“Hey, Patrick. How you doing?” he asked. Patrick tried to figure out if there was anything else in his tone that he was hiding. He was drunk, and after the run-in at the airport, he was still a little on edge. 

“Better,” Patrick said eventually. It seemed to be his mantra for now. “I’m doing better.”

“That’s good.” Pete nodded and looked around. The band that Patrick had picked out for Joe and Marie sounded good. Patrick almost wanted to dance. “Did you bring anyone?”

“No.” Patrick didn’t mention Michael, who he was tempted to invite, but in all honestly, he didn’t want to bring him around the shit show of a friendship that he had with Pete, which was half amazing, half in shambles. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

“I told you it wasn’t serious, Patrick.”

“You didn’t tell me about it in the first place. I read it in a magazine,” Patrick said but then paused. He didn’t want to talk about it. There was very little point. It had been a classic Pete move. “I’m really happy for you.”

“Shut up.” Pete put a hand on Patrick’s mouth, his thumb pressing down on Patrick’s bottom lip. The movement reminded Patrick of another time, another life as Lukas, but he didn’t go with the thoughts. “Just shut up and tell me how you are?"

“I already did,” Patrick said, when Pete removed his hand. He rested his hand this time on Patrick’s hip. Patrick was well aware that they were at Joe’s wedding, but they were tucked in a corner and nearly everyone but decrepit old Nanas were dancing. “I’m getting better. You left me low. You left me in a bad place, but I fixed myself. I fixed myself with Joe and Marie’s help.”

“They did a better job?” Pete shrugged, but he looked hurt.

“It helped that they didn’t want to fuck me,” Patrick said. “That fucked things up for us.”

“You were pretty pushy,” Pete teased, but Patrick wasn’t in the mood for that game.

“I was in a bad way. I opened up about my feelings and all you could do was push me away, or kiss me and say I kissed like a whore. Didn’t leave me feeling amazing,” Patrick said. Why they were having it out here, at Joe’s wedding reception, Patrick didn’t know. “You have to take some responsibility.”

“I do, I’m sorry.” Pete removed his hands from Patrick and raised them, palms up. Patrick stared at him. He was confused. Confused forever. Pete had been a dick to him, unintentional or otherwise. “I’m sorry that I said the wrong thing and for leaving.”

“It’s okay.” It probably wasn’t, but Patrick didn’t want to fight about serious things, not when Joe and Marie were now married. He wasn’t totally okay with Pete, but they’d always fight. They could save it for another day. “I’m going to dance. We can talk later.”

Patrick danced with Marie and he danced with Joe, he danced with Joe’s mom, and Joe’s...someone. A lot of middle aged women, and then some seven year olds too, because why not. Then he went to re-hydrate at the bar and Pete was watching. He had a beer in his hand and a smirk on his lips. Patrick could read horny in men, it was a skill he was keeping from his time escorting. He could see it dripping off Pete right now. 

“How better are you? Because you’re right. The reason I couldn’t fix you properly is because I wanted to fuck you and I still do. So, are you better enough?”

“You’re drunk,” Patrick informed him. He was too, but Pete only shrugged.

“Yeah. Which means I’m, like, way more free with my words. I’m not leaving anything unspoken. I want you, Patrick. And you seem stronger now. Like I’m not gonna fuck you up anymore.”

“You’re only gonna fuck me by the sounds of it,” Patrick said. He hadn’t had sex in forever. He’d been ready to sleep with Michael in the moment, but had put it off for fear of ruining things. He didn’t see himself on the same level as Michael, but closer to Pete. He’d fallen from Patrick’s pedestal years back. 

“If that’s what you want,” Pete said. He stared at Patrick, his dark eyes flashing under the party lights. Patrick swallowed. He was ready now. He was strong enough.

“My hotel is closer.”

 

Patrick didn’t find himself going to that dark place. There wasn’t the desperation of a relationship like there’d been before. He wasn’t desperate for Pete to see him as something worthwhile, so he wasn’t trying to impress. He was, though, wired with energy. He wanted to get fucked, _be_ fucked. He wanted it through the mattress, hard enough that his legs shook to jelly, so that he couldn’t even speak.

They were up against the hotel room door, they were kissing, and Patrick wasn’t gonna let Pete even stop to call him a whore this time. Their tongues curled and swooped into each other’s mouths, Pete’s thigh was wedged between Patrick’s. He was almost pushed up on the door. If Pete was taller maybe he would have been. 

“You gonna let me have you?” Pete said when Patrick finally let him have his mouth back. Patrick nodded. He wanted his voice back, but he couldn’t. He stumbled into the room as Pete took a seat on the edge of the bed. Patrick took off his suit jacket, watching Pete watch him. He smirked. He felt shy, almost. He hadn’t felt shy about sex in a long while. 

Patrick undressed himself, not exactly putting on a show, though Pete watched him like it was. He tried to imagine himself doing this with Pete at any other point in their life, but it wouldn’t have worked. When he was in nothing but his shirt and underwear Pete told him to stop. He curled his finger at Patrick, who understood what he meant.

Patrick stood over Pete and then crawled onto his lap. His legs were bare and they felt strange over Pete’s clothed ones. Still, Patrick smiled, waiting on Pete to give him one back. For a second he looked just as stressed as Patrick. 

Slowly Pete started to unbutton Patrick’s crisp white shirt. Patrick wanted to wriggle away, because he was hard in his underwear and everything was on display, but half of him liked that. Pete kissed down Patrick’s chest, he pressed against one of Patrick’s nipples with his thumb and waited for it to peak. He was still clothed but Patrick didn’t mind. He wanted to leave his head but he couldn’t dissociate when he was drunk and tense and about to screw his oldest and most complicated friend.

Patrick had his hands on Pete’s shoulders as they kissed again. He wanted to press closer, somehow, to be completely naked. He tried to work on Pete’s shirt but Pete smirked, he shook his hands and grabbed Patrick’s wrists.

“Gonna make this about you, alright?” Pete said, like it was romantic. He dropped Patrick’s wrists and instead curled a hand over Patrick’s crotch, rubbing him through his boxers. Patrick moaned, he spread his knees wider over Pete. He nodded his head. 

They kissed some more. Patrick still wanted less clothes on Pete, but he wasn’t going to argue about it. Plus Pete’s hands were distracting him. His fingers were curled into the waistband of Patrick’s briefs, pulling them down beneath his ass, but keeping his dick covered. Then his fingers squeezed. He spread Patrick’s cheeks as they kissed, over and over, until Patrick bumped their noses together and started to laugh. 

“What you doing?” he asked. 

“Copping a fatass feel,” Pete said. Patrick smacked him lightly on the cheek and shuddered as Pete flashed one finger briefly against his hole. 

“Want me to ride you? That’s what I want,” Patrick said, closing his eyes and imagining. He could do that. Sit in Pete’s lap nearly naked, asshole clenched tight around Pete. He’d want Pete to come first, just so that he could see his face clearly before he fell apart. 

“That'd be awesome, but not now,” Pete said and then, because Patrick was unawares and about to argue, he didn’t catch that Pete was about to shift until it was too late and he was flipped diagonally across the bed. His underwear was annoying him now, still tucked halfway under his ass and he pulled them off, aware then, that he was on his back, legs half open, with Pete watching him. 

“When are you gonna take your clothes off?” Patrick laughed, half closing his eyes. He touched a hand to his stomach and then lower. He curled fingers briefly around his dick and sighed. 

“Fine.” Pete started to strip on a laugh. Patrick peeled his eyes open, but it wasn’t like Pete was putting on a show for him like Patrick had, he was literally getting himself as naked as he could in as quick a time as he could. Patrick laughed and then stared. He knew what to expect, he’d already seen Pete’s dick before, but still. It was a nice reminder. Not big enough to make it hurt, but definitely good enough to make him sore in the best way. 

“Better,” Patrick said, as Pete crawled on the bed again. Now Patrick was the one in more clothes, still in his white shirt. It was basically translucent with sweat now. Pete squeezed Patrick’s thighs and pushed them open with a smirk. They were both in a giggly drunk state. Everything felt like a good idea.

“I’m gonna make it good for you, don’t worry,” Pete said and then ducked down. He kissed down Patrick’s stomach, tongue swirling over his belly button. Patrick peered down as Pete mouthed at his cock, just briefly before moving lower. A predictable move, but Pete had always been vocal about his distaste in sucking cock. He couldn’t complain, not when he felt the slick kiss of Pete’s tongue against his ass.

This wasn’t a regular occurrence when he escorted. Most of his clients were generally into fucking him or getting their dicks sucked. TipWell had done it that one morning. And Patrick had thought about Pete doing it to him. 

Patrick started to laugh at the absurdity just as Pete had started to circle his tongue inside. He looked up, his brow furrowed as Patrick laughed. Patrick felt a little bad for doing so, but then Pete’s tongue slid in deeper and he stopped.

Pete was going for it. Maybe he felt like there was competition, like maybe Patrick had been laughing at his technique and not his last time at the assplay rodeo. 

“Add a few fingers,” Patrick said, closing his eyes and enjoying the sound of Pete’s lips and mouth fucking his ass. The coarse brush of his stubble against Patrick’s thighs. His toes curled as Pete finally pressed a finger inside.

That was better. Patrick lifted his legs so he could get a better view. He squeezed his cock and moaned at the almost stretch. Getting fingered wasn’t a huge thing for him anymore. He could take it, but it was an almost comforting tease. That it was Pete’s tongue and Pete’s fingers in his ass made it all the more better. 

Pete suddenly changed position. He moved one arm, to push at Patrick’s thighs, and then forcibly pressed his face between Patrick’s legs. There was no getting away from it, from Pete’s lips and fingers. Three of them now. Sliding in and out, stretching him open. Patrick closed his eyes and jerked himself with the motions. When Pete’s thumbs moved, to hold him open, to get his tongue deeper, Patrick felt himself let go. 

Patrick came, over his hand and over his stomach, with Pete’s fingers now wedged fully inside. He was sitting over Patrick, watching him lose control. 

“Fuck.” Patrick wiped his hand on the bed and then looked at Pete. He felt shaky. He opened his legs and felt Pete’s fingers slide from his body. “That was good.”

“What were you laughing at earlier?” Pete asked, hand on Patrick’s stomach, leaning down beside him. His cock was full. Like eating ass had turned him on. Fuck. That was a turn on. Patrick was still fairly certain Pete would make a terrible boyfriend for him, but he was shaping up to be a good fuck. 

“Maybe I’m ticklish,” Patrick shrugged, laughing when Pete did. Pete fell on top of him, his face curling into the damp curve of Patrick’s neck. “Your dick is hard. You can fuck me. I won’t break.”

“You know... I’m getting the sense you’re a secret power bottom. There’s way more bossiness than I figured,” Pete said, laughing and lifting his head. His fingers were gentle on Patrick’s forehead, stroking the damp strands of Patrick’s hair back. 

“I’m glad you think that,” Patrick said softly, enjoying the touch and the attention. He didn’t mention that Lukas wasn’t in any way a power bottom, but the thought that that side of himself was reappearing was sort of amazing. “Maybe I’m just drunk.”

“Maybe that too,” Pete said. He shifted, like he was trying to be attentive but slightly distracted still. Patrick laughed and pulled Pete over him. 

“Come on. Come inside me. I’ll let you.” Patrick kept his voice soft, even when Pete groaned. There was a brief pause for Pete to pull the small amount of lube from his suit jacket. Patrick had laughed at that. He was the ex sex worker, after all. There was no condom, and Patrick trusted Pete when he said he was clean. 

He didn’t want anymore fuss. He didn’t need prep like some would. He just needed Pete and his lube slick dick. He lifted his hips, his thighs over Pete’s sides, and he sighed, already well fucked, as Pete pressed inside. 

Pete kissed Patrick’s face as he moved inside him. His ass was giving around Pete. He could feel he was stretched. He wouldn’t be the tightest Pete had, that didn’t seem to matter. Pete lifted Patrick’s legs, bending him in half almost, fucking him bareback. He could feel Pete’s thighs slapping against his ass. His arms were tangled in the white of his shirt, and he was just fucked over and over. 

He wouldn’t come again, it wasn’t possible, but the sound of their skin slapping, the bed creaking, and Pete’s moans against his ear was enough. This was what it was like having sex because he wanted it, because it felt good, with no money attached. At one point, Patrick’s knees were nearly to his shoulders and he was all Pete’s. In that moment nothing else could exist. 

When Pete came, it was hard and a little rough. Patrick stroked hands through his hair, over his neck and down his back. By the time Pete shakily pulled out, Patrick could already feel his come trickling out of his body and down his thighs. 

“Mmm, okay,” Patrick said, opening his legs and shifting. Pete was on his stomach, eyes dark and half closed. “Not bad.”

“Power bottom alert,” Pete slurred, his hand moving onto Patrick’s knee. “You are feeling alright?”

“I think so,” Patrick said. “I felt like I stayed in the moment. Probably helped that I’m drunk.” 

“I’m pretty beat myself,” Pete said, moving his hand off Patrick’s leg. “You’re gonna be in trouble… Joe wanted you to catch the bouquet.”

“That’s not happening,” Patrick laughed sluggishly. He closed his eyes, feeling gross in the best way. He needed to fight his way out of the shirt, but he was too achy to even do that. 

They didn’t speak again, and Patrick heard the telltale signs of Pete falling into a light sleep. In the morning Patrick knew things would probably be different, once he got past the guilt of abandoning Joe and Marie’s wedding for a night with his sometimes best friend. 

The issue was that they were both anxiety ridden idiots, and Pete wasn’t known for being stable in relationships. It felt destined to fail. And Patrick would have to confront his own feelings. The sex had been good, had been what he wanted, and it felt like he’d closed the door a little tighter on the recent past, but still. Michael was there, he would love Patrick, support him in suitable ways. In ways Pete wouldn’t be able to. For now, though he was tired. He was well fucked in a good way, and the thoughts about what to do tomorrow could stay out of the way for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking this out... I wanted people to come to their own conclusions about how it ended because I think we all want different things for Patrick, and that's pretty cool :)


End file.
